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David Strong’s Errand. 



MRS. NATHANIEL CONKLIN 

(JENNIE M. DKINKWATER), 

Author of “Wildwood,” “Rue’s Helps,” “Electa,” etc., etc. 


Hast thou errands to be run? 
Here am I ! 0 Lord, send me !” 


‘ I came not to do my own will, but the will of him that sent me.” 


?.9 1884 ^;^/ 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION, 

No. 1334 CHESTNUT STREET. 


VZ'i 


COPYRIGHT, 1884, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OF THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION. 


ALL BIGHTS RESERVED. 


Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers arid Electi'otypers, Philada. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

I. The Father ..... 5 

II. Dixie and the Others ... 21 

III. Aunt Martin . . . . ,50 

IV. “Daily Light” .... 68 

V. Christmas Cheer . . . .79 

VI. Nomie has her Wish . . . 106 

VII. Gilbert ...... 132 

VIII. Serving ..... 148 

IX. Errands ...... 159 

X. Providences ..... 175“ 

XI. A Temptation ..... 207 

XII. Some Younger Brothers . . . 221 

XIII. From Nine till Eleven . . . 232 

XIV. The Mystery. .... 260 

XV. Gilbert Again ..... 278 

XVI. Cousins. 288 

XVII. David’s Brother. . . . .317 

XVIII. Aunt Martin Expostulates . . 327 

XIX. Another Old Woman . . . .341 

XX. Life’s Lessons, .... 360 


3 






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David Strong’s Errand. 


L 

The Father, 

my dreaming boy!” ejaculated the old 
^ man, in a fond, half-expostulating tone. 

The dreaming boy was stretched at full length 
on the sofa, leaning on his elbows, with both 
hands pressed into his hair, a book kept open 
before his eyes by the weight of an ivory paper- 
cutter. The only glow in the chamber came 
from the soft coal-fire in the grate ; it lent a dim 
light to the measured lines of the page. 

The boy liked to catch and muse over a thought 
from his book. A glare of light disturbed him 
when he read ; he would have preferred to read 
by moonlight or in the dark. He had been un- 
usually silent for a week : something was coming 
— some plan that would require thought; and 
his father waited, also silent, for its revelation.. 
The boy’s thoughts and plans were revelation ” 
to his old father; they were always something 
that the boy had been ‘‘told.” His musings 


6 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


were at no time very deep, no deeper than con- 
stant reading of the best poetry, daily study of 
the Bible, and his own experience had made 
them — that is, they were no deeper than you and 
I can understand. His father believed him to 
he a genius, altogether too spiritualized for the 
common walks of business-life ; still, it was high 
time for him to he waked up and to begin to do 
something. His father had suggested that to 
himself every day for a year past. 

David had been out of college more than a 
year, and had not discovered what to do with 
himself. But then he was only nineteen.* At 
nineteen his father had been in business for him- 
self ; perhaps that was the reason why his son 
had no need to be in business for himself. He 
was the child of his father’s old age, and no pet- 
lamb had ever been reared more tenderly. It 
was a wonder that his luxurious life had not 
spoiled him ; perhaps it had, in a measure, for 
he had taken no honors at college. He was re- 
lieved to be back at home again with his books 
and his father. 

The old man paced through the apartments 
with his hands folded upon his breast. Three 
rooms opened into one another. There were the 
glow of the fire, the fragrance of flowers, pict- 
ures, harmony of color, elegance, ease — luxury 
everywhere. David had but to touch the bell, 
to give an order, and every need was supplied. 


THE FATHER. 


7 


In his father’s heart he held the place of wife 
and daughter and son. 

The old man slowly paced the rooms, through 
the fragrance and the soft light, thinking. He 
had been thinking of this thing many days. 
Would it be too hard for the boy? Was he 
sacrificing the younger to the elder? 

He was a splendid old man, eighty-five years 
old to-day, as erect as his tall boy of nineteen — 
taller by two inches, and handsomer. The eyes 
beneath the shaggy white brows were black, ten- 
der and full of light ; a white moustache covered 
the gentle fiexible upper lip, and his glossy white 
beard flowed over his breast. Over David’s desk 
hung a photograph of him that the boy called 
his ideal of fatherhood. 

If there’s a better father in the world, I don’t 
want him,” David used to say, clinging to his 
neck, when he was only four years old ; and if 
there were a more perfect father in the world to- 
day, his grown-up son did not want him. He 
was as proud of his father’s beauty as of his 
character. He kissed his father’s forehead every 
night as a daughter might have done, and ran 
his fingers through the soft white locks as he 
had loved to do when a child. There was a 
spring in the old man’s step as he trod the car- 
pet, and a ring in his voice, that would rouse you 
as he paused in his walk near the sofa and ex- 
claimed, 


8 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘ David 

It roused David. His father’s voice had been 
his inspiration all his life. He loved his father 
better than he loved God. But that was because 
he knew his father better. 

‘‘Well, sir?” he answered, cheerily, springing 
up and linking his arm within his father’s. “ I 
was too far away just then ; I am glad to be 
called back. I was picturing to myself a life of 
self-denial and sacrifice, and you call me back to 
the easiest life a lazy hoy ever lived.” 

“ Perhaps not; perhaps my thoughts have been 
a reflection of yours, David, my son. What have 
I ever told you about Martin, my other son — my 
elder son ?” 

“ Very httle. I know that he gave you a heart- 
ache before he was my age.” 

“ I will tell you now ; I feel like talking about 
him to-night. I dreamed of him as I was dozing 
in my chair just now.” 

The two kept even step as they walked and 
talked. David was tall and strong, with Saxon 
blue eyes, yellow hair and yellow moustache ; the 
spring in the father was snap in the son. Al- 
though in a Southern home, the boy was born 
in the North ; he was as hardy as a sapling on a 
New England farm. He pressed his father’s 
arm, as they walked the length of the rooms 
twice, in sympathetic silence. The old man had 
not felt the lack of a daughter : he had his son. 


THE FATHER. 


9 


He had not grieved for the loss of the boy’s 
mother as he might have done had he not had 
the boy. There was this difference between the 
father and the son : the father loved God better 
than he loved David. If he had not loved God 
better, I doubt whether his son would have found 
so much in him to reverence and to love. 

Martin was my first-born, the son of my 
youth, as you were the son of my old age. I 
was twenty-two when Martin was born ; how old 
is he to-day ?” 

“ Sixty-three,” exclaimed David, in amazement. 
“ Have I a brother old enough to be my grand- 
father ? ” 

Have I a son old enough to be a grandfather ? 
Not quite impossible. Martin is not dead, as for 
so many years I have supposed him to be ; our 
relatives do not necessarily die because we do 
not know that they are alive. No doubt he has 
thought me dead long since. I have seen a man 
who has seen my son and talked to him within 
two months.” 

Where is he ?” inquired David, in a tone of 
repressed excitement. 

“He was in New York City, but he does not 
live there. I do not know his home or his busi- 
ness. Forty years ago that boy ran away from 
his father. How old was he then? Twenty- 
three. Not a boy, but a man. He forged my 
name and my partner’s name for a considerable 


10 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


sum, obtained the money and ran away with it. 
He had been wild for years — more than wild, 
unprincipled and wicked ; and when he did evil, 
I sought to restrain him. But he would make 
himself vile. I bore with him for years, I tried 
to be patient, I was severe toward his sins, but I 
was never unkind to him. I provided for him ; 
he had a good home. I reasoned with him, I gave 
him every inducement to behave himself, but he 
drank, he gambled ; he was the ringleader of a 
wild set. After he disgraced me I had no heart 
for anything. His mother had been years dead. 
Perhaps — we always say so — he might have been 
different had he had a mother, a good mother. I 
gave up my business and left the place ; I went 
West and made money. I am not the poor man 
that he left me ; I have a fortune sufficient for 
you and for him. I believe I came here with 
the hope of finding him — of finding some trace ; 
and, curiously enough, I have found it. I wanted 
a winter of rest with you. 

I am losing my vigor. I want to bless my 
sons and die. Martin has dropped my name — 
the name I hoped he would honor, the plain old, 
stanch name of Strong — and calls himself Mar- 
tin Shields. This man knew him by his hands. 
They were wild together in their youth, but Bas- 
comb is a steady-going man of business now. I 
never told you about Martin’s hands. He had 
an extra little finger on each hand between the 


THE FATHER. 


11 


little finger and the next one. How ashamed he 
was of the deformity as he grew up ! He wanted 
me to have them cut off ; he was willing to hear 
the pain, because the hoys at school called him 
‘ Little Finger.’ His mother — poor thing ! — used 
to cry about it. I am glad she didn’t live to cry 
about something worse. I have her work to do 
for him as well as my own. I was alone, and 
then God gave me your dear mother. How she 
came to love me is a marvel to me. I was over 
sixty, and she was years younger — ^years and 
years younger ; but she did love me till the sad 
day of her death. She was an orphan and poor, 
and I was like a father to her ; perhaps that was 
the secret of her love. I found her in one of my 
trips East, living with relatives, dependent upon 
them for her daily bread. The only friend she 
had was a cousin, young, like herself, and named 
Huth, like herself — Ruth Herbert — with one lit- 
tle beauty of a baby-girl they called an odd name, 
Dixie. I’ve lost sight of them since your mother 
died, but I’ll never forget that chubby child ; I 
wanted to own her. I kept your mother only 
seven years, and then I had you to comfort me 
for all my losses and my shame.” 

‘‘And what a poor comfort I am !” said David, 
in deep emotion. 

“ I seem to have lived two long lives — one with 
Martin as my only son, and one with you as my 
only son. But oh, David, how I rejoice that the 


12 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


lost is found ! I want him to be found to me as I 
have been lost and found to my Father in heaven.” 

The crimson color rose high in David’s face ; 
his eyes were full of tears. With all his self- 
restraint — and he had a great deal : too much, 
his father thought — ^he could not keep his color 
down nor his tears back. His dear grand old 
father to be thus disgraced ! to be comforted thus 
by the lost son being found ! He did not think 
about himself and his shared fortune ; he remem- 
bered only his father’s shame and hope. It was 
David’s peculiarity that he never thought first 
of himself ; his father declared that he was born 
without selfishness. 

David, I have a plan : I have something for 
you to do. Perhaps it is the last work you will 
do for your old father. I have made my will, as 
you know, making you, my only son, my sole 
heir ; but since I have learned that my elder son 
is alive I want him to share with you — if he de- 
serves it. He is old, and he may be very poor ; 
he was a sad spendthrift once, but he may have 
learned wisdom by painful experience. I want 
his old age to be comfortable even if he does not 
deserve it, and in that case shall leave money for 
him in trust with you. But he may be honest 
and industrious now, and know how to use money 
for his own good and the good of his fellows. If 
he live as long as I have lived, he still may have 
honorable years before him. I want him to have 


THE FATHER. 


13 


a chance. He threw away his first chances. He 
is not like you ; he is hard and unloving. Even 
as a boy he was reserved and stern. He was 
very like his old English grandfather in his 
manner. He had no friends except a few wild 
youths who were not so daring as he. He may 
have sons ; my heart yearns over him and his. I 
have money, as you know ; my income is greater 
this year than last. My elder son has rights if 
he will repent and come back to me. I want him 
to come hack to his father believing that he is old 
and poor and needs his care. Any man would 
gladly come for what he can get ; I want my son 
to come for what he can give. I want the best in 
him to be moved. And I want to know that he 
will not hoard nor wastefully spend the money I 
leave him — ^that he will make it the medium of 
giving bread to little children and building homes 
for hard-working mothers and fatherly fathers. 
I want my gold to mean bread and home and joy 
in hard work ; in your hands I am sure it will. 
You will take my place among my men. I have 
studied you, David; you love your kind. You 
have an open hand and a responsive heart. My 
money will do its good work under your steward- 
ship. I was content to leave it all to you — all 
excepting the legacies I have spoken about. But 
I am not telling you my plan. My heart is at 
rest about you, but there's a discipline ahead for 
you. You will come out tried as gold, and more 


14 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


than ever will you love your fellow-man and 
work for the man and the child next to you.’’ 

Father, I have been waiting to tell you : I 
have no genius, no talent ; my brain is not quick. 
I do not feel called to the ministry ; I have no 
desire for any literary or scientific work. I am a 
commonplace fellow enough in everybody’s eyes 
but yours. I want to do your work; I want to 
build a little church, as you have done; I want 
to live for my men, as you have done ; I want to 
take your life and go on with it. I wish I bore 
your name. I want to live your life; I can think 
of nothing more satisfying.” 

‘‘My dear boy, you will do better than I have 
done. I have kept a diary for fifty years ; I shall 
bequeath that to you that you may avoid my mis- 
takes. It is a diary for a business man ; all the 
advice I have for you in your business life is in 
that and in the book of Proverbs.” 

“Will your plan for me conflict with my 
immediate work?” David inquired, somewhat 
nervously. 

“For the present, altogether. Instead of be- 
coming a master, you will become a servant. I 
want you to go and find Martin. I want you to 
live in his house, to learn what he is by night 
and by day, at home and abroad. I trust you to 
bring me a faithful report. I want you to learn 
if money will ruin him. I want you to learn his 
heart toward his old father. No matter if it take 


THE FATHER. 


15 


months or years. You shall come back to visit 
me — I cannot do without you for a very long 
time — and you will write me everything every 
day. I want to hear every word he speaks to 
you and to others, that I may thoroughly know 
him. You shall reveal him to me, and me to 
him. If you cannot live in his house, live as 
near to him as you can. You cannot fail to find 
him; Bascomh has the address of a man who 
deals with him in peaches, I believe. Bascomh 
is sure he is in the country, and that a part of 
his business is raising peaches. Martin Shields, 
sixty-three years old, with extra little fingers, 
cannot be mistaken. Bascomh says he is straight 
and tall, his eyes as black as ever, with whitened 
hair and full white beard. He was struck by his 
resemblance to me. He is cold and curt in his 
way of speaking ; he says he is an unhappy man 
with an unhappy face. He did not discover him- 
self, for he knew Martin would instantly have 
withdrawn himself, and he wanted to learn all he 
could about him. But that was little enough. 
He has an invalid wife, because he was buying 
oranges for her. I hope he is loving toward her; 
I hope he remembers his mother. He has been 
a sailor ; Bascomh gathered that from some re- 
marks he made. He was dressed plainly, almost 
roughly ; he had not the air of a gentleman. He 
must not know you until I give you permission 
to reveal yourself. Probably he does not know 


16 


DAVID STBOXG’S EBRAXD. 


of your existence. He may never have tried to 
trace me. My old friends in Xew Hampshire 
know little about me ; I had nothing to go back 
for. I want him to come back to his Mher, not 
to his father’s money.” 

If he knew you, he would,” David burst out. 
‘‘What you can give him is nothing in compar- 
ison to giving him yoursel£” 

“ If he can take me now, he could not take me 
when he was your age,” said the father, sadly. 

“How much he has lost! It will break his 
heart when he sees what he might have had and 
been. He might have taken your place instead 
of me.” 

“He has lost that; now he will have to make 
the best of what he has left. He will have to be 
content with the younger son’s portion.” 

David withdrew his arm and stood thinking. 
Would this plan swallow one year, two, three ? 
But was it not worth a lifetime? Should he 
accomplish but this, the repentance of his 
brother, and give such overwhelming joy to 
his ftither, would his life not hold enough of 
work, enough of satisfection ? It would involve 
a change of his long-dreamed-of plans; it would 
bring him a life of servitude. He might be a 
master, and he was voluntarily becoming a serv- 
ant. He must lose the daily companionship of 
his father, and that was dearer than the sunlight 
to his eyes. His hither miLSt lose him for a long 


THE FATHER. 


17 


season — ^lose his daily care, that every year made 
more essential to his comfort. Would it be noth- 
ing to miss wife and son and daughter all in one? 
For the sake of whom? For the scapegrace who 
had brought grief to that father’s heart and 
shame to his good name. He had unfiliaUy left; 
his father to himself these two-score years ; the 
world would not be broad enough to keep him 
from his father. But had Martin sought and 
failed to find liim ? Had he remembered that he 
might be in want and might need a son in his 
old age ? 

“Father, had you not better return home? 
How alone you will be here!” 

“I should be alone anywhere without you. 
No; I need this sea-air: it braces me. I am 
not so strong as I was twenty years ago.” 

“ I do not want to leave you, then.” 

“ I can send no one but you ; no one but you 
can prove to him how much his father loves and 
forgives him. Gro, my son ; I send you. You 
never disobeyed me in your life. I wish you 
might start to-night. You must be poor and 
wear coarse clothing. If he should happen to 
live on a farm, how could you be a help to him ? 
I cannot imagine you a farmer’s boy.” 

“You forget how I love horses and under- 
stand them. I can be coachman, and hostler too, 
if necessary. I can go into the wockIs and fell a 
tree with the most experienced ; more, I can saw 
2 


18 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


it and split it. What is winter work on a North- 
ern farm? The doctor sent me to work on a 
farm five years ago, and how lusty and strong I 
came back to you ! I might teach the village 
school and board with him,” he added as the 
thought came to him. 

‘‘But you could not learn him then as I want 
you to learn him. I want you to be under him ; 
I want you to be a poor man under him, that I 
may understand his attitude toward the work- 
man. David, what a son you are to me ! You 
obey me although I send you from me — although 
I send you from luxury into poverty. He must 
suspect nothing ; you must drop your last name 
and become ‘David Meredith’ only. Write to 
me as ‘David Meredith.’ How I shall live on 
your letters ! Write twice a day if you can.” 

“You forget that my time will not be my 
own,” said David, smiling. 

“So I do. But you can write at night. Are 
you willing to demean yourself? The man worth 
more than a hundred thousand dollars to work 
for his daily bread !” 

“On such an errand, I am,” cried David, his 
eyes kindling. 

“Your nature is one to appreciate it. You 
have loved poetry all your life ; now here is an 
opportunity to live the highest kind of poetry. 
How you will miss your books ! But I suppose 
a friend can send you a book now and then. 


THE FATHER. 


19 


You have a rich father, and your work shall not 
be one hour too long. Make me one promise.” 

Twenty,” exclaimed David. 

‘‘Write me the truth every day about yourself 
as well as about your brother. I must know 
every hardship, how you sleep, what you eat 
and the work you do, your associations — every 
one of them ; keep nothing from me. I want to 
be with you in spirit.” 

“ If you must know, I promise ; but then you 
will share the hardship with me.” 

“Could I let you bear it alone? Sleep on 
straw if you must, but let me know it. I wonder 
if you are ready for hardship?” the father said, 
looking tenderly into the moistened blue eyes. 

“I am ready for anything for your sake, 
father,” David returned, his voice choked with 
feeling. 

“And for his?” 

“For his because he is yours.” 

“I will deposit money in your name in New 
York, on which you can draw. It is worth while 
to have had a son like Martin to have a son like 
David. Can you start in the morning? Hearing 
from him has brought him back to me as though 
it were yesterday.” 

The son bowed ; he could not utter his word 
of obedience. He strode out of the room and, 
boy that he was, threw himself upon the foot of 
his bed and wept. What a story was this ! The 


20 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


father sending the son, the son obedient and will- 
ing to suffer. Had he ever heard such a story 
before ? Had he not time and again heard that 
story unmoved ? Had he heard it and not loved 
that Father with all his heart? Had he heard 
that story and not believed in that Son with all 
his heart ? 

Neither David nor his father slept much that 
night, and before another night the son was well 
on his way and search for the lost one. Was it 
strange that his father had remembered and loved 
this runaway son through all these years? It 
would have been strange for another man, another 
father, but in this love and long remembrance he 
was asserting and proving his fatherhood. 

When David was a little lad, his father had 
said to him, 

I want to be so loving to you, and so just and 
wise, that whenever you say ‘ Father’ to God you 
will think, ‘ He is like my father, only infinitely, 
infinitely better.’ ” 


II. 

Dixie and the Othees. 

‘‘ TUXIE!’’ 

^ It was always ‘‘ Dixie ! ’’ from morning un- 
til night. Dixie was used to it ; she was more 
used to it than was agreeable to her. There were 
so many to call her ‘‘Dixie;” sometimes she 
thought that she lived in the largest family in 
the world. But it was a good name to call, the 
Dix-ie could he so prolonged, so emphatic, so 
beseeching ; and it could be short and emphatic 
besides. It was usually imperative when her 
uncle called her, but it was full of caressing when 
Nomie whispered it; and Nomie’s whisperings 
atoned for all the rest. 

Dixie was always finding something to atone 
for something else ; there was not a hardship in 
her life that had not a blessedness behind it. If 
Nomie were strong and could go to school like 
other little girls, how much she would lose of her 
companionship! And then what a pleasure it 
had been to teach such a bright scholar! how 
much more stupid she herself would have been 
without this enforced teaching ! Aunt Martin’s 

21 


22 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


accident was a very terrible thing, but where else 
would she and Nomie have found a home where 
they would be at home f And how good it was 
for Aunt Martin to have them ! It is true Mr. 
Savage was sometimes slow and disagreeable, but 
how kind he was, and ready to help ! Gilbert 
was cross lately, and scarcely answered a pleasant 
word; but if he had some boyish trouble, now 
was her opportunity to show her appreciation of 
it. And if Joe did bring into the kitchen all the 
animals he trapped, and skin them, he brought 
in plenty of fun at the same time. Uncle Mar- 
tin was the most trying blessing Dixie possessed, 
but he did not mean to hurt her by his harsh 
ways, and he had said once in his life, Dixie, I 
don’t know what we should do without you.^’ 
And then Aunt Martin’s fretfuliiess was followed 
by so much real contrition, and her often-repeated 
long stories were not so dull to listen to, for once 
in a great while she began differently or ended 
differently or thought of some new thing. 

Frank was a real trial, however ; Dixie could 
not think of any happy thing in connection with 
him. He had cast an evil spell over impressible 
Gilbert, and the poor boy seemed to be doing 
every wrong thing he knew how to do. Joe was 
a cross-grained little fellow, and one had to study 
him and humor him to make him pleasant to 
have around, but Gilbert was merry and sweet, 
everybody’s favorite, his father’s as well as his 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


23 


stepmother’s ; and if he were not so easily moved 
and impressed, so ready to yield to evil as well as 
to good impulses, what a comfort he would be ! 
Last week, and again this week, his father had 
collared him, dragged him to the barn and used 
the horsewhip. No wonder that the humiliated 
hoy could not speak a pleasant word to anybody. 
By the way in which he moved Dixie was sure 
his back was sore yet. And now he was forbid- 
den to go to school or to leave the farm for a 
month. What new dreadful thing he had done 
Dixie could only surmise. She thought he had 
lifted his hand to strike his father. Forest would 
not tell her, and Frank had mumbled something 
about ^Hhe old man deserving it.” Dixie believed 
that Aunt Martin, who had been his stepmother 
ever since he was seven years old, shed more tears 
over him than over all her other troubles together. 
Gilbert was sixteen this winter — old enough to be 
such a help and comfort ; and he it was who kept 
his father’s face stern and his voice harsh. Uncle 
Martin seldom showed any feeling for anybody, 
but he did look at his eldest boy with eyes that 
never looked at any other. Joe and Jesse he let 
severely alone unless they annoyed him. 

And then there was Forest. Forest was an- 
other trouble that was almost a real trouble. 
Not that he was disagreeable in any way, but 
he wanted to marry her ; and that was disagree- 
able enough in itself. This was a grief in which 


24 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


she did not know how to find comfort. It was a 
comfort that he found her lovable : no girl will 
deny that. It was a very sweet comfort, for her 
little sister was the only other person in the big 
world who did love her and tell her so. But it 
was so terrible for him ! She felt the terribleness 
of it fully as much as he did — rather more, for 
he believed that her hard heart would relent 
some day, and she was sure her hard heart never 
would. She was more sure to-day than usual. 
In the first place, he was younger than herself — 
not very much, but enough to call it younger 
— and she would never marry any one younger 
than herself; no, not even one month younger. 
She thought that was so lovely in Sarah, obey- 
ing Abraham and calling him lord.’’ Sarah’s 
reverence for Abraham was her ideal of a feel- 
ing toward a husband ; for unconsciously she 
had an ideal. And then Forest had eyes as blue 
as her own, and he was merry and light-hearted, 
not grave and strong and dependable like her 
ideal. Some one ‘‘comfortable to live with,” 
since she had known Uncle Martin, had been 
to her better than genius. There were ever so 
many reasons besides not loving him that made 
it impossible for her to marry Forest; perhaps 
the very strongest was her mother’s last, gasping 
words : “Keep together.” 

Forest did not likeNomie; he declared that 
she was “precocious and jealous and made Dixie 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS, 


25 


her slave.” As Dixie was more than willing to 
be her slave, she resented this assertion with 
great vehemence. 

Dixie knew all her ‘‘reasons” by heart, and 
so did Forest. The most convincing reason to 
him was the very reasonable one that she did not 
love him ; but then, when he first came, he had 
not loved her, and why should not her love come 
and grow as his had ? It was the most natural 
thing in the world. She shook her head over such 
reasoning, but he only laughed. He belonged 
to a good family ; he was only out here on a 
farm because he had not been strong and coun- 
try air and country work were advised. His 
mother was a widow and rich, and he was her 
only son ; and what was this Dixie Herbert, who 
would not promise to marry him as soon as he 
was twenty -one and inherited his father’s money ? 
She was friendless and poor, working in some- 
body’s kitchen to support herself and her little 
sister, but every inch a lady, nevertheless. She 
was graceful, and his sister Eleanor was awk- 
ward ; she had a pretty laugh, and how his 
sister Mollie cackled when she tried to laugh ! 
His sisters would resent her hands, but without 
work would they not become soft and white? 
He did not like her hands himself, but he liked 
her ; she was worth any man’s loving, with her 
sweet face, her pure heart and her good com- 
mon sense. Perhaps she was a trifie too saintly. 


26 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


caring more for the Bible and Sunday-school- 
library books than for those love-stories he 
brought her the last time he went home; but 
a new life would change that, as well as her 
foolish excessive fondness for that deformed 
little sister. It was well for him that he did 
not speak all his thoughts to Dixie ; and, as he 
did not, he was not at all disagreeable to Dixie, 
who had never been wooed before. So she found 
some comfort in him, as she did in her other 
anxieties — if anything that holds a blessing can 
truly be called ‘‘an anxiety.’’ 

Dixie’s aunt was of the opinion that she her- 
self did not have one single comfort that was not 
half a worry ; but then Dixie was young and 
strong, and her aunt was feeble and aged: a wife 
must needs be aged when she is ten years older 
than her husband and he has passed his sixty- 
third birthday. Nine years ago, when she was 
married, she looked younger than he, with her 
quick step, slender figure, rosy cheeks and wavy 
brown hair. He believed her to be younger, and 
she hugged to her heart his reply that last Sun- 
day evening before they were married, when with 
much misgiving she revealed to him her age : 
“No matter; you are as young as you look. 
Everybody is.” She gave him a grateful kiss, 
but she was not, in reality, much more demon- 
strative than he, and had not kissed him since. 
She could be demonstrative when she met with 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


27 


responsiveness, and it is to be doubted if he 
could. Poor Aunt Martin ! ’’ Dixie thought 
every day. Her face seemed always to reflect 
her husband’s words. 

“ Dixie !” (This w^as the imperative voice.) “ Is 
dinner ready?” 

‘Ht shall be in ten — no, eleven — ^minutes,” 
answered Dixie, blithely. 

The owner of the imperative voice turned 
short around and went out of the kitchen mut- 
tering something. Dixie thought it sounded 
like She always had dinner ready on time.” 

Martin Shields certainly understood to per- 
fection the art of making people uncomfortable. 
His wife lived in a state of perpetual discomfort, 
but Dixie was her sunny self before he spoke, 
and her sunny self afterward. She had not 
lived painful years enough to have struggled 
into peace ; a more fitting word described her : 
“untroubled.” She had to be sunny. Where 
would the sunshine in that dark old house come 
from if she did not manufacture it every five 
minutes ? For Nomie must live in the sunshine ; 
she drooped in an instant if a shadow crossed 
Dixie’s face. Dixie kept her shadows for her 
cold chamber, where she could hide her face un- 
der the bedclothes and cry a little and pray a 
great deal. She did not have very much to cry 
about, but she had a great deal to pray about. 
To-day she was praying about mittens and a 


28 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


hood for Nomie, that she might go to Sunday- 
school. She had not been to Sunday-school 
since her little straw hat became too uns^eason- 
able. Sunday-school stood out as the one great 
event of the week. It meant seeing her teacher, 
Miss Abby Wayne; it meant seeing the girls 
and hearing the singing; and, above all, it 
meant choosing a book for herself. She did 
not miss the lesson on the home Sundays, be- 
cause she and Dixie alw^ays studied it together ; 
but then Dixie never said such nice, queer things 
as Miss Abby did. 

Dixie had faith about the hood and the mit- 
tens. She was sure God loved Nomie because 
Nomie loved him so much. Being loved was a 
reason even for God to love more in return. She 
did not like to speak to Aunt Martin about No- 
mie’s things, because there was that doctor’s bill. 
Every time she stayed five minutes in her aunt’s 
room she heard something about that doctor’s 
bill. 

‘‘Oh, Dixie!” called a distressed voice from 
the dining-room, where Nomie was setting the 
dinner-table. “I’ve broken a cup.” 

“Well, never mind. Sweep’up the pieces and 
bring them to me,” cried the hopeful voice. 

“You always say ‘never mind,’ ” continued the 
distressed voice, a little less distressfully, “but I 
do mind, all the same.” 

“ Then you are a disobedient little girl.” 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


29 


Nomie pushed the door more widely open, and 
came to Dixie with the blue-and-white fragments 
in her hands : 

suppose it belonged to Aunt Martin’s 
mother. Shall I go in and show it to her?” 

“No; I’ll tell her when it becomes necessary 
for her to know it. Her back aches to-day, and 
broken dishes are not cheerful subjects of con- 
versation.” 

“Dixie,” fixing her eyes on Dixie’s face, “I 
don’t know what God let me do it for. He 
knows I didn’t mean to be careless; it was be- 
cause my left hand gave out, as it often does.” 

“You mean you don’t know what he lets that 
hand give out for ? Well, I don’t know, either ; 
but he does. And I’m sure it’s for something 
good, aren’t you?” 

“For breaking Aunt Martin’s cup?” with a 
grave smile. 

“No, but for having this nice little talk about 
him. He knows what this is for, too.” 

“Yes,” said Nomie. “and I wish he would 
tell me some of the things he knows about — 
things like these — ^about me.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if he would some day, 
when your heart is old enough to understand; 
it is like me waiting for you to be older to tell 
you about father and mother and — how you hap- 
pen to be weak and let things drop. Just put 
those bits away ; I’ll take care of them.” 


30 


DAVLD STRONG ERRAND. 


Forest said that it was Dixie herself who made 
Nomie “ ol(L” But who made Dixie old ? Forest 
liked her best when she sang and laughed and 
made funny shrewd remarks. 

I have said that Dixie was young, but she was 
not so very young : she was nearly twenty-two. 
She was more womanly than girlish; she was 
large and hir, with tinted cheeks, plump hands 
and arms, yellowish-brown hair and the bluest 
of blue eyes. About her there was a general 
comfortableness that would make you warm and 
happy on the coldest and dreariest day. Forest 
called her his German princess. A great-grand- 
father had come from the Rhine and transmitted 
to her the sturdy beauty of his race. Forest said 
that she pronounced her few German words more 
accurately than he, and he had studied in the 
Fatherland. She had taught Nomie all the little 
Grerman she had learned at school, and “some 
day ” they were to learn more together. 

“ Some day ” was fdled with the most unex- 
pected things, such as building a fire morning 
and night in their chamber, having two oranges 
to eat at one time, owning a whole long lead-pen- 
cil, buying a copybook and a slate, and knowing 
somebody who would give you a box of letter- 
paper. These air-castles were some of the things 
that Dixie cried about at night, her own childish 
days had been so fiill of Nomie’s ardently desired 
blessings. Oh, why hadn’t Xomie b^n bom 


DIXIE AXD THE OTHERS. 


31 


first, nine years before their father died, and why 
hadn’t she herself been the one to Ml off the 
chair and hurt her spine ? Why hadn’t Xomie 
been careles and let her fidl, instead of her care- 
lessness being the cause of Xomie’s weakness and 
deformity ? But would she hare Nomie as sorry 
as she herself was? Would she have Xomie’s 
life bound to hers as hers was bound to Xomie’s? 
Would she hare Xomie keep herself from loTuig 
somebody for her sake, as she was keeping — 
But no; she was not keeping herself: she did 
not care. 

It was one of those coldest, dreariest days to- 
day; everybody in the house and around the 
farm needed all the sunshine Dixie could make. 
Even slow, patient Schenck Savage looked blue ; 
he had shut himself up in “ Cousin Sylvie’s room 
every morning for two weeks past, and did not 
manifest his appreciation of her society by any 
added cheer of countenance. Perhaps no one in 
the house depended upon Dixie’s spirits ” more 
than he did. He was so little in himself and to 
himself, and, except by way of his unselfishness, 
he was not much more to any one else. 

What a little world of queer people Dixie’s 
large Mnily was ! If I should let each one tell 
vou his history, I am afraid you might forget 
David Meredith Strong and his errand. 

On this coldest, dreariest day, even with her 
heart bursting with its prayers for Xomie, Dixie 


32 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


had been singing and laughing and chatting 
to everybody that passed through her kitchen, 
besides a brief visit every hour to that close, hot 
room across the hall. Her coming seemed a dis- 
turbing element there, too, for Mr. Savage looked 
conscious and ashamed and had a ludicrous air 
of doing nothing. She would not have discon- 
certed him by frequent visits but that her aunt 
7nust know the exact stage of progress in the 
kitchen. 

‘‘That kitchen used to be the happiest place in 
the world to me,’’ she had sighed once, when 
Dixie described how the dinner was getting on. 

It was not Dixie’s “ happiest place,” but she 
was usually to be found there. It was a long 
narrow kitchen with one large window, a smaller 
one over the sink, a rag-carpeted floor, two well- 
scrubbed tables and a huge cooking-stove. There 
were also two pumps — one for soft water, and one 
for hard — and two closet doors, now both open, 
as it was meal-time. 

The room was filled with the odor of dinner ; 
even salt beef — it was not merely corned beef — 
cabbage, turnips and potatoes had a savory odor 
in Dixie’s kitchen, and that pumpkin-pie, thick 
and yellow, with its flaky crust and its generous 
sprinkling of sugar, was certainly sufficient to 
tempt less hungry people than the four who 
would soon rush in to dinner. 

It always made Martin Shields cross to fell 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


33 


trees ; but if he did not sell wood every winter, 
how would the heavy household expenses be 
met ? He would like to have you tell him. But 
no one could tell him ; so the wood-cutting arid 
the wood-drawing went on. The tax-bill had 
been exceptionally large this year, the freshet 
last spring had torn away many bridges, and a 
new county-house had been built, besides the re- 
pairing of the village schoolhouse, of which he 
could not see the necessity ; and then the church- 
tax, but that was a voluntary contribution, and 
Sylvie had insisted upon voluntarily contrib- 
uting fifty dollars toward the furnace and the 
new-fashioned pulpit. Of course the money 
was hers ; the whole of the farm and its stock 
was hers, for that matter. It galled him every 
time that he remembered that he had burdened 
her small farm with himself and three small 
boys, and brought her only that meagre three 
thousand dollars in the Seamen’s Savings-Bank. 
But she had gladly taken them all in, and had 
no one but herself to blame if she had made a 
poor bargain. It was a pity for a woman to live 
unmarried until she was over sixty, and then not 
to know how to choose a husband. If her farm 
and means of a life on the land in his old age 
had been duly weighed, whose fault was that? 
No one could say that he neglected his wife or 
squandered her savings. All these thoughts were 
in his face, darkening his eyes and giving an im- 

3 


34 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


patient tone to his voice, as he obeyed the sum- 
mons to dinner. The only reason that he cared 
to live was because he dreaded to die. 

The others came tramping in, Frank slapping 
his arms together. Forest rubbing his ears, Gil- 
bert steadily avoiding his father’s eyes, and Mar- 
tin Shields giving Tramp a kick to keep him in 
the shed. 

“Cabbage? That’s good!” said Frank, rudely. 

“I hate cabbage,” muttered Gilbert. 

“Dixie’s dinners are always good,” said Forest, 
with a glance toward the shy, busy housekeeper. 
Dixie was always busy and shy when Forest was 
near her. 

Nomie was setting the chairs around the table; 
they were heavy to lift, and she pushed them 
across the carpet. She was thirteen years old, 
hut she was slender and as short as the average 
child of ten. There was a slight curve in her 
spine between her shoulders ; the right shoulder 
was noticeably higher than the other, and, unless 
she took great pains, her head fell forward and 
her chin rested upon her neck. She did not like 
to go to school, because one day, when she went 
to see if she would like to go, one of the large 
boys had asked her why she kept her chin down. 
She had confided to Dixie last night, beneath the 
friendly cover of the blanket, that she was “pain- 
fully shy, like one of the kings of Francx3.” Her 
study this winter was history. Last summer she 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


35 


had read almost to pieces Far Off; or, The Coun- 
tries of Described, and Near Home; or. The 
Countries of Europe Described, Her quotations 
from them were amusing and apt. Dixie had so 
little time to read that she said she would never 
know anything were it not for Nomie’s quota- 
tions and her persistency through all obstacles 
in reading aloud. When Dixie began to teach 
her, she herself was faulty in spelling, could not 
write her own name prettily and had forgotten 
how many States there were in the Union. 

Dixie was not wise now ; she did not pretend 
to keep pace in reading with Nomie, who bent 
over a book every day until her eyes smarted. 
Her education came in at night, when Nomie 
talked her to sleep. Last night she had dozed 
before Thomas a Becket was murdered, and only 
by some effort roused herself in time to echo 
“Dreadful!” in response to Nomie’s enthusiastic 
and sympathetic “Wasn’t it dreadful 

“ But I don’t know what wicked thing he did, 
Dixie, to make the king hate him so.” 

“Bead it again to-morrow,” advised Dixie, 
sleepily. 

“ Oh, I’ve read it times enough,” said Nomie, 
wide awake, “but I can’t understand why the 
king hated him, when he used to love him so.” 

“I’ll look at it to-morrow and tell you,” con- 
soled Dixie, wondering if she had forgotten to 
set the bread-sponge by the dining-room stove. 


36 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


But to-morrow had come, and it was baking- 
day ; and the puzzled little historian was setting 
the chairs around the table without understand- 
ing why the king wanted to get Thomas a Becket 
out of the way. Dixie was purposely delaying 
the conversation that would be sure to come, not 
at all sure that she was ‘‘bright enough’’ to dis- 
cover herself. 

Nomie seemed to have been named “Naomi” 
because her mother was named “ Buth.” Their 
father had suddenly died a week before Nomie 
was born ; the mother had lived until the child 
was five years old. Their guardian had kept 
them in his own family the year succeeding her 
mother’s death ; then, himself dying after a few 
days’ illness, his affairs were found involved, and 
no account could be rendered of the small prop- 
erty of the orphans. Their only resource was 
an aunt of their mother, Mrs. Martin Shields. 
When she took them to the farmhouse, she 
“made a bargain” with fifteen-year-old Dixie 
that she should work for her own board and 
Nomie’s ; how they were to be clothed had not 
entered into the agreement. They had a good 
wardrobe on hand, poor little black-robed things ! 
and shrewd Aunt Martin thought she could make 
that “do” for a long time. 

The two girls wore mourning for their mother 
longer than children ever did before. Dixie 
thought her crape never would wear out, and 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


37 


Nomie’s little old face looked so sad in that 
black bonnet summer after summer ! But Aunt 
Martin had three boys to attend to — ^three boys 
that she really seemed to love. She had quite a 
conscientious time doing her duty to her two 
grand-neices and her three stepchildren, but it 
was done to her own satisfaction, if not always 
to the admiration of the neighbors, especially of 
her cousin and neighbor Miss Abby Wayne. 

What with making over old dresses of Aunt 
Martin’s and her own and with earning some- 
thing by plain sewing, Dixie did manage to 
clothe her little sister; but now, since Aunt 
Martin’s accident, there was no time for plain 
sewing outside of home demands. How to clothe 
herself was a puzzle that Dixie was continually 
seeking to solve; sometimes she felt as if she 
were not clothed at all. A box of second-hand 
clothing from her guardian’s family two years 
ago had kept her well dressed for a while. John 
Roberts, her guardian’s only son, had solemnly 
promised that he would see that she and Nomie 
had their ^‘rights,” but he had married since 
and had children of his own to whom he had to 
give rights. Dixie could bear this hampered, 
liardworking, uncongenial life for herself, but 
a big lump would rise in her throat when she 
thought of all she wanted to do for her little 
sister. Nothing but praying ever took that lump 
away. 


38 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


The shoes Dixie had on at this moment, as she 
stepped around the kitchen dishing up the din- 
ner, had a history ; they had pinched her toes at 
first, but constant wear had worried them into 
comfort. Miss Abhy had given them to her that 
last night that Dixie had watched with Miss 
Sally; her own shoes were so little protection 
that she had tossed them across the field and 
limped home in the early dawn in Miss Sally’s 
shoes to get the breakfast. Her number was 
four, and these were three and a half; she was 
uncomfortably sure of it. That was in Septem- 
ber, and now it would soon be Christmas ; and 
she tripped around the house forgetting how the 
shoes had pinched that day Miss Sally died. She 
did almost decide not to wear them when Nomie 
alluded to them as dead people’s shoes,” but 
she could not trouble Aunt Martin. And then 
what would Miss Abbie think ? 

At the dinner-table, pausing between slow 
mouthfuls of bread and milk, Nomie announced 
her intention of going to Miss Abby’s house that 
afternoon. 

How do you intend to go?” inquired Martin, 
in his brusque tone. ‘'You can’t walk.” 

“No, sir, but I can ride. Forest will take 
us.” 

“Who is ‘us’?” 

“Dixie and me; ‘us’ is always Dixie and 


me. 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


39 


Forest has no horses and no sleigh/’ he pro- 
ceeded, teasingly. 

‘‘ But he’ll take us if we want to go, and if you 
will let him.” 

How do you know I will let him ?” 

“I don’t know — ^you wouldn’t let him take 
Dixie to town when she wanted to go — but I 
think you will.” 

Gilbert wondered how the child dared talk so 
familiarly to his father. 

Miss Abby’s house was a sruall old structure on 
the road parallel to their own, several long fields 
in their rear ; the only path to their back door 
Forest had made yesterday, when he and Mr. 
Savage went over to see if the old lady were 
frozen up and if she were in want of kindling- 
wood. 

The old lady was a relative of Aunt Martin, 
and had lived alone with her cat. Mischief, since 
her sister had died. No persuasion could induce 
her to leave her quiet home, where she had wound 
her clock every week for fifty years, to spend 
the rest of her days ” at the house of Martin 
Shields. 

It would not be the rest of my days,” she had 
returned, with grim humor, when the proposition 
was made to her. 

‘AVe would make you comfortable,” urged 
Aunt Martin. > 

You couldn’t do it,” retorted the plain-spoken 


40 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


old woman ; you don’t know kow to be comfort- 
able yourself.” 

Martin would have been glad enough to have 
taken her house and ten acres in payment for 
taking care of her as long as she lived, and for 
burying her respectably when she died ; but old 
Miss Abby had lived eighty years in the world, 
and preferred to hold her own comfort in her 
own hands. 

The kitchen door that led into the shed was 
now opened and closed with a bang: Joe and 
Jesse were tumbling in from school. They 
quieted themselves before they came to the table, 
and ate their dinner in respectful silence. 

Martin Shields had been a widower with three 
little boys when he asked Sylvia Mason to be- 
come his wife ; she owned a farm of seventy-five 
acres and a large piece of woodland up in the 
mountains. She was over sixty years of age, but 
she was as spry and erect as a girl, and a famous 
housekeeper. She was a trifle fretful, and more 
than a trifle ‘‘ close,” the neighbors thought, but 
she had been a good wife to him, and, as far as 
she knew how, an excellent mother to his boys. 
She loved the lads and was not afraid of them, 
but she soon grew to be very much afraid of her 
silent husband. Like his children, she did not 
understand his silence ; but she married him be- 
cause he had asked her and because she wanted 
to. He had come from a distance, and no one 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


41 


knew good or evil of him. She had wavered 
because of but one thing : he was not a “ pro- 
fessor but he did not use profane language and 
he held religion in great respect. She hoped a 
great deal from her prayers and her influence ; 
her prayers were daily growing stronger and 
stronger, but her influence — She seemed to be 
so little to him ! Women who have through a 
long life dreamed happy dreams of marriage And 
such disappointment harder to be borne. Before 
the accident she had lost spirit and energy. The 
boys were not demonstrative ; her husband was 
still more undemonstrative. All were exact- 
ing; not one of them was thankful. She was 
almost glad to be away from them by herself. 
The doctor warned her that if she did not try to 
sit up a while and to walk every day she would 
in reality become bedridden. For three years 
she had not stepped across the hall into the din- 
ing-room ; once she had been carried into the 
parlor, but she had begged to be taken back : it 
did not seem like home any longer. She had 
been seriously injured by a fall as she was going 
down the stairs one hot day to work the butter 
over in the cool cellar. Therefore it fell out that 
Dixie was nurse as well as housekeeper. 

How many there were at Dixie’s table ! — 
Martin Shields, opposite herself, Frank, Forest, 
Nomie and the three boys, besides Schenck 
Savage. It does not matter that I have named 


42 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


him last; people were always forgetting him. 
He was always forgetting himself. He was a 
relative of Mrs. Shields, and had boarded with 
her since her brother John died, fifteen years 
ago. He was possessed of a small income. He 
had no power over the principal ; he could not 
even mention it in his will. In taking the inter- 
est regularly he was almost afraid that he was 
wronging the next heir. But the money had 
been his father’s, and surely he was glad to have 
him enjoy it. He worried somewhat because he 
did not save anything, but then why need he ? 
He had money hidden away to defray his funeral 
expenses, and the ground was already purchased ; 
there would be no one to come after him to be 
provided for. As Shakespeare says of the cat, 
Schenck Savage was ‘‘a harmless, necessary creat- 
ure.” 

Schenck had taken in Aunt Martin’s dinner ; 
there was nothing besides the usual work to 
hurry about. Dixie slowly ate her dinner, en- 
joying every moment that she could sit in a 
chair and rest. Sitting still and doing nothing 
at all was a luxury that came only on Sunday. 
She did not enjoy sitting opposite Martin Shields, 
but the sweet pale face and the lovely yellow hair 
of Nomie were next to him, and she could smile 
across the table at her. 

It was not such a large family, but it had such 
a way of intruding itself and of expanding itself 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


43 


that each one seemed to count more than the 
original one. Any hour might bring a new 
demand. 

“If I hadn’t shingled the barn this year and 
built that cistern, I suppose I might have had 
something laid by for the tax-bill,” remarked 
Martin, apologetically, for the third time, as he 
piled Frank’s plate with vegetables. “I hate to 
sell so much of that wood.” 

How weary Dixie was of the endless fuss and 
fret of “getting along ”! Did everybody have to 
get along ? She thought it would be pleasanter 
to stick fast once in a while. It would be a 
change. If you had asked her to-day what 
she desired and needed most, she would have 
answered: “A change! Anything, so that it be 
something different.” This hidden restlessness 
in her own spirit was the secret of her constant 
change-making in the household. Martin said 
that a stool never stayed long enough in one 
place for him to learn not to stumble over it. 

It was hard to make changes for the table. 
Martin bought all the groceries and limited the 
fare — not to his own taste, perhaps, but to the 
present state of the finances. At one time he 
declared that too much sugar was used, and 
allowed none to be placed on the table for three 
weeks ; at another time, when the laid-down 
butter failed and none was churned, he per- 
sisted in buying it only for his wife. Such a 


44 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


course would teach Dixie economy, he said. Salt 
beef, salt pork and baked beans alternated day 
after day and week after week. With the des- 
serts Dixie could have some variety : she could 
vary the spices in the pies; and if she could 
have only molasses gingerbread for supper, she 
might make it soft or roll it out hard and cut it 
into squares at her pleasure. 

For the invalid Dixie could make but few 
changes ; once in a while she would take down 
one of the two or three chromos in her room and 
substitute something from another part of the 
house, or she would bring out from the treasure- 
house a new quilt and refuse to take it back 
until Aunt Martin had recounted all its his- 
tory. In that treasure-house — one of the kitchen 
chambers — Aunt Martin had piled away sixteen 
quilts that had never been laid over a bed ; her 
own lingers had pieced thirty-seven. On first 
being taken ill, she had felt that she was not 
willing to die until she had finished that thirty- 
seventh quilt. She had hoped to live long 
enough to piece forty. Dixie never forgot how 
astonished she had been when she first came to 
the house and Aunt Martin had taken her into 
that kitchen chamber. Such piles and boxes and 
chests ! But the queerest of all was that band- 
box with seven pairs of coarse mittens yet re- 
maining : always expected to be married some 

day, and so I got his mittens all ready.” The 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


45 


piles of handkerchiefs and underclothing and 
bedclothing there now ! Dixie had been cau- 
tioned dozens of times never to enter that room 
with a lighted candle. Once a week she ex- 
plored its shelves and corners, that she might 
he able to give a faithful report of its condition. 
She did not envy Aunt Martin, but how glad 
she would have been to own one of those hem- 
stitched handkerchiefs ! Oh, if she might have 
but ten yards of that red flannel to make up for 
Nomie ! 

But Nomie missed nothing, and found pleasure 
in everything. Dixie was sometimes afraid that 
she was deceiving her as the father deceived the 
blind girl in that story by Dickens that Forest 
had read aloud ; but is not life bright and sweet 
if you never look on the dark side or let your- 
self think about the hard things ? The fear that 
most of all troubled Dixie was that Nomie, might 
think this home was a Christian home — ^that she 
might imagine their uncle to be a gentleman and 
their aunt a lady. The child could never know 
what their own home had been ; she could not 
remember the sweet-voiced, gentle lady their 
mother was; she had never seen a gentleman 
like their father. She herself had taken their 
mother for a model, and had taught Nomie never 
to be rude ; but how was she to see a gentleman ? 
Even Forest was not her ideal of a gentleman ; 
poor Schenck came nearer to that. 


46 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Uncle Martin, may the oxen take us, if you 
can’t spare the horses?” pleaded Nomie as she 
stood at his side to take his plate preparatory to 
bringing in the dessert. 

You must be ready to go as soon as we are,” 
he answered ; we will take you before we go up 
to the woods.” 

‘‘Oh, we can’t. There are the dishes, and 
Dixie has to comb Aunt Martin’s hair.” 

“ Then we can’t wait. Hurry and bring me a 
piece of pie.” 

“ I wish we could wash dishes as the Tartars 
say their prayers,” she said, dolefully. 

“ How is that ? Don’t go for the pie till you 
tell us,” encouraged Forest. 

“ Oh, they get some prayers written and put 
them in a drum and turn the drum around and 
around with a string. Aunt Martin could pull 
the drum round as she lies in bed.” 

“ I’d do that,” cried Jesse. 

“And the princes have an easier way still. 
They write prayers on a flag and put the flag 
up before their tent and let the wind blow it 
about.” 

“ Short stories !” exclaimed Martin, impatient- 
ly ; “I want to be about my business.” 

“ I’ll wash the dishes and get supper,” inter- 
rupted an eager, weak voice. “ I’ve been sitting 
too much lately ; I need a little exercise.” 

“ Good for you, Schenck !” cried Joe. 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


47 


“ Mr. Savage/’ said Dixie, gratefully, “ you are 
as kind as you can be.” 

But there’s Aunt Martin’s supper,” said No- 
mie, placing a large piece of pie before her uncle. 

“ I’ll see to that too ; she says I lift her better 
than anybody,” replied Schenck, in his satisfied 
voice. I did want at one time to be a doctor, 
but mother wanted me to be a tailor.” 

‘‘ A tailor is only the ninth part of a man,” 
said Martin, in his contemptuous voice. 

Frank laughed, but Forest hastened to say 
something kind. 

‘‘Dixie, when have you had a holiday?” pro- 
pounded Schenck, in the manner of one giving a 
conundrum. 

“ Oh, I went to church the other Sunday.” 

“ Because it was communion Sunday ; you 
can’t always get otf on communion Sunday.” 

“ It isn’t good for a young woman to be a gad- 
about ; she can find enough to do at home,” de- 
cided Martin. 

She certainly finds enough to do,” retorted 
Forest, significantly. — “ Just wait until you have 
a home of your own, Dixie.” 

“Oh, won’t that be nice?” cried Nomie. — 
“ How will you get it, Dixie ? And when shall 
we have it?” 

“ When the dead ducks fly over the river,” 
laughed Martin, rising from the table. — “ Gil- 
bert, take some more wood into mother’s room.” 


48 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘Yes, sir,” answered Gilbert, under bis breath. 

“And you boys go in and see her before you 
go to school ; you don’t go into that room once a 
week.” 

“ She says my feet are dirty,” apologized J oe. 

“And she tells me not to go coasting,” added 
Jesse. 

“ Do as I tell you ; go in every day after this 
and speak to her. — You too, Gilbert. — You are 
a set of ungrateful boys.” 

“ Gilbert will go,” said Frank, giving Gilbert 
a meaning look that made Dixie uneasy. 

“ Frank, keep your tongue between your teeth 
until you are spoken to,”- commanded his master, 
sternly. “Your month is up to-morrow, and you 
are to go ; do you understand that ?” 

“Yes, sir. I can go to-day; I can get plenty 
of places.” 

“ You needn’t come to me for a recommenda- 
tion.” 

“ No, sir,” said Frank, adding, as Martin left 
the room, “And you needn’t come to me for one, 
either.” 

The three boys laughed. Schenck laid his 
hand on Joe’s shoulder : 

“Honor your father, boys; you’ll come to 
grief if you don’t.” 

“ Then I’ll come to grief,” said Gilbert, in a 
loud voice. — “ Come along, Frank.” 

“ Don’t forget the word,” warned Frank. 


DIXIE AND THE OTHERS. 


49 


Again Dixie was troubled. 

“I’m going off,” said Frank; “I’m tired of 
these parts. I’m going where there is some life, 
and where a fellow isn’t yapped at from morning 
till night. No man ever pulls me out of bed 
again as Martin Shields did this morning.” 

Dixie put her arm around her little sister. If 
she had a home of her own, how much rough 
talk Nomie would escape hearing ! Swift as a 
flash Dixie resolved to promise to marry Forest 
Mansfield if ever he urged her again. With 
burning cheeks and veiled eyes she hastened 
out of the room. 

“Schenck, keep the fires up,” said Martin 
Shields as he passed through the kitchen. 

“ Oh, I always do. But I wish Cousin Sylvie 
wouldn’t feel so about burning wood up. Now, 
I leave it to you : can I keep the fires up without 
burning wood up ?” 

The innocent appealing tone was irresistibly 
mirth-provoking. Martin Shields was not given 
to laughter, but he threw back his head and 
laughed. 

4 


HI. 

Aunt Maktin. 

I T was a pretty old face that lay pressed against 
the pillow ; it would have been a lovely face 
had it been patient, hut Aunt Martin did not 
know how to he patient and had no desire to 
learn : she wanted to fret, because there were so 
many things to he fretted about. Nevertheless, 
the pale face lighted up when the door was 
pushed open and Dixie appeared. No one 
rested her like Dixie. She felt that her hus- 
band did not sympathize with the story of her 
aches and pains, and she had not a particle of 
patience with Schenck’s slow, easy ways. When 
she complained to the neighbors that the place 
needed a man about,’’ more than once it had 
been suggested that she should marry Schenck. 

‘‘ Schenck !” she had repeated ; and the tone 
was sufficient reply. 

Once a friendly neighbor had made the same 
suggestion to Schenck. 

‘‘ Thank you ; I prefer to stay my own mas- 
ter,” he had answered, with his usual mildness. 
Now sit right down on the bed and tell me 

50 


AUNT MARTIN. 


51 


about everything/’ Aunt Martin coaxed, in a 
tone of childish enjoyment. 

‘‘1 can’t stay very long,” said Dixie, sitting 
down upon the side of the bed, taking the thin, 
hard hand into her own and rubbing it with her 
warm fingers as she laughed and talked. Her 
cheeks were burning still, and how her eyes were 
shining ! She had quite a story to tell, when she 
came to think of it : for there had been some 
funny mishaps and two or three callers, and 
Nomie had asked several particularly amusing 
questions. 

Aunt Martin had three excellent nurses, No- 
mie, Dixie and Schenck. Schenck read aloud 
to her every day in his complacent, uninterested 
voice. She did not enjoy books — in her busy 
days she had counted reading a waste of time — 
but it was something to hear somebody’s voice, 
and it was better than continual preying upon 
herself. The reading was chiefly religious — 
memoirs, devotional books and Sunday-school 
literature. She gave something every year to- 
ward the renewal of the Sunday-school library, 
and she thought she might as well reap some 
benefit from it. She had a feeling of reverence 
toward the books, also. Years ago, when she 
had attended one session of a Sunday-school con- 
vention, she had chanced to peep over the shoul- 
ders of two ladies who were writing answers on 
a printed slip of paper ; the question she noticed 


52 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


was this : To what human means do you attrib- 
ute your conversion?’’ The reply in both in- 
stances was the same : The reading of a Sun- 
day-school library-book.” Since then she had 
laid by two dollars a year for the village Sun- 
day-school library. Certainly, as soon as Aunt 
Martin discovered that a thing was right to do, 
she did her best to do it. 

Schenck also read aloud the weekly newspaper 
and the weekly religious paper column by column. 
He took a characteristic delight in the advertise- 
ments, particularly those of the clothing-houses 
and the grocery-stores. He never wearied his 
patient by being too deep, but sometimes exas- 
perated her by being too shallow. Many were 
the delicacies he prepared for her with his own 
hands, and many the dainty paper packages he 
secretly brought from town. No one took so 
much pleasure in his little gifts as himself — all 
the more as the generosity required a stinting of 
his own comforts. All through this cold winter 
he could not afford to replace his very shabby 
overcoat with a new one because of Christmas 
presents he had been thinking about since the 
Fourth of July. It was true that the want of a 
comfortable overcoat kept him from church on 
very cold Sundays, but then, if he might help 
Nomie and Dixie to go, wasn’t that as accept- 
able” ? And he read only good books on the 
Sundays at home, and meditated ” a great deal. 


AUNT MARTIN. 


53 


Dixie sat still and rubbed her aunt’s chilly 
hands and talked fast about every pleasant thing 
she could possibly think of, answered endless 
questions, never ruffled or impatient even when 
the questions were thrice repeated ; never impa- 
tient when asked how much was saved from din- 
ner to be ‘‘ warmed over ” for breakfast, how soon 
there would be cream enough to churn again, if 
she had looked into the pork-barrel to see if that 
brine would do, if she ^Hried out” all the fat 
meat, if the soap-grease barrel was almost filled ; 
and did she keep soft soap on the sink for the 
men to wash their hands ? had she swept up the 
snow that had burst through that broken pane 
into Frank’s garret? had she baked corn bread 
to-day to save the white bread ? and how was the 
butter holding out ? 

Every day, and sometimes oftener than once a 
day, Dixie answered questions similar to these — 
not snappishly or sullenly, but in a tone express- 
ive of interest. No one in the house understood 
the effort by which she kept her voice up when 
her heart was sinking ; no one in the house knew 
that her heart ever sank. And then, if the truth 
must be told, she was not at all literary in her 
tastes ; she never hungered and thirsted for books 
as did Nomie. Then the housekeeping was not 
so burdensome or the cross-questioning so trying 
as they might have been. Since she had learned 
to read, at seven years of age, her literature had 


54 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


been tbe Bible and Sunday-school library-books, 
with a chance story-book now and then. She 
had always been stupid ” about her lessons, and 
to-day would have grievously blundered over a 
simple example in fractions. She was only quick 
where Love’s lessons were to be learned and 
taught. She really dreaded that daily reading 
aloud of Nomie’s old History ; the only charm 
about it was the child’s sweet voice and eager 
pleasure. How could she care for Thomas ^ 
Becket ? And why did Nomie care so much to 
find out why the king hated him ? It made life 
no harder and no easier for them. 

But did it not? How that tattered school-his- 
tory brightened Nomie’s days ! How else would 
Dixie have kept the child so bright this hard 
winter ? The book had been found in that stored 
kitchen chamber — ‘^the miser’s chest” she called 
the room in her thoughts. Still, the hoarded 
treasures might be a help to somebody — when 
they were all dead and buried. 

Nomie was “bright;” she would never need 
to be anybody’s household drudge. Dixie sighed 
over herself and tried to make the best of herself. 
And what a sweet best it was ! Genius itself could 
have made it no sweeter. 

“Are you sure you have told me everything ?” 
queried the tired voice. “It seems as if you 
hadn’t told me much.” 

“Everything I can think of,” said Dixie, 


AUNT MARTIN. 


55 


laughing lightly. Shall I tell you something 
that I can’t think of!” 

“ Don’t jump up yet. You are uneasy to-day, 
as if there was something on your mind. You 
don’t have so much to do that you can’t stay a 
minute, do you?” 

Dixie settled herself back again, leaning 
against the red foot-board and stifling a sigh. 
There certainly was something on her mind — 
something that in all her twenty-two years had 
never been there before. Forest would be kind 
to Nomie, and he could give her a good home — 
a refined home; and perhaps she could take 
music-lessons, even. With a film before her 
eyes, she began again to rub the thin fingers 
with a slow, soothing motion. Poor Aunt Mar- 
tin had never been soothed” much. Her mother 
had been more energetic and saving and unsenti- 
mental than herself; Dixie was the only one who 
had ever petted her. Dixie would have petted 
the poker if she could not have found something 
more alive. 

‘^Aunt Martin,” with an effort, if I should go 
away, could you find any one to take my place?” 

‘‘You go away? How you make my heart 
beat I How could I trust anybody with all my 
things ? I shall want to die in earnest if you go. 
I have little enough to live for now, and I sha’n’t 
have anything then.” She drew her hands away, 
bursting into tears — such slow, hopeless tears ! 


56 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


But there was Nomie. Dixie braced herself 
to speak. 

‘‘You have a sort of a cousin — she’s middle- 
aged and capable, and knows where everything 
is — Sarah Harper; and she needs a home and 
would not ask very much, perhaps not more than 
Nomie and I cost you.” 

“But she isn’t strong; she couldn’t do the 
washing and the ironing. And who would take 
care of me ? She gives me the fidgets every time 
she comes. Do you want to be paid something ? 
I don’t know how I can afford it, with that two 
hundred and seventeen dollars to pay the doctor 
the next time he comes. And he says I must 
have a chair — a reclining-chair that will cost 
fifty dollars more ; and I mustn’t stay in bed, or 
I’ll be bedrid. Will fifty cents a week do? 
Will you stay for that, with all the things I’ll 
give you ? You may have all that red flannel 
for Nomie if you want it,” she sobbed, rubbing 
her eyes with a square of old muslin that Schenck 
had hemmed for her. 

“ Oh, thank you. Aunt Martin ; I have almost 
coveted that. I believe I have prayed for it. 
Nomie must be kept warm at night.” 

“You would take your skin off to keep her 
warm,” grumbled Aunt Martin. 

“ If my skin were a buffalo-skin, I’m sure I 
should want to. I’ll cut it out before I go, and 
sew it at Miss Abby’s.” 


AUNT MARTIN. 


57 


“What are you going there for? You are 
always going there/’ 

“I haven’t been there this month, and it is 
almost Christmas. I haven’t been outside the 
gate since the first day of the month. That was 
communion Sunday, and Schenck got dinner and 
let me go. Nomie wanted to join the church, but 
she had no hood and couldn’t go.” There was 
nothing “ injured” in Dixie’s voice or manner. 

“ I hope you didn’t tell the neighbors ?” almost 
screamed Aunt Martin. “ But you know there’s 
the doctor’s bill and that invalid-chair. I got 
Gilbert to show me the money — two hundred 
and seventeen dollars — and count it before my 
eyes when he brought in the wood. He put it 
back safe, for I sat up in bed to see him do it. 
It’s in my top drawer, in that little Bible that 
used to be father’s. I feel as if it is safer between 
the Bible leaves. Now, don’t you talk any more 
about going away, and I’ll tell Mr. Shields that 
you are to have fifty cents a week and be clothed 
— ^you and Nomie. You are both to be clothed — 
do you understand ? — and I’ll let Abby know it, 
and Sarah Harper, who said you didn’t look fit 
to go to church that Sunday you did go. You 
ought to have stayed at home until I got your 
things ready. Will you promise to stay now ?” 

“No,” said Dixie, “not any longer than 
spring.” Forest would be twenty-one in the 
spring, and inherit his father’s money. 


58 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘And where will you go then?’’ 

Dixie was silent. She had no mother to tell ; 
she would be so glad to tell somebody. 

“ I think — perhaps — I am not real sure,” she 
blundered — “ that I may be married.” 

“ You ! Be married ? What do you want to 
be married for?” 

“ For Nomie,” cried Dixie, covering her face 
with her apron and bursting into loud weeping. 
“ Oh, Aunt Martin, you know this is no home 
for my mother’s little girl. I can bear it — I can 
bear anything ; but there is no prayer at morn- 
ing and night, and no blessing asked at the 
table; and Sunday is not like Sunday at all. 
Uncle Martin greased his harness last Sunday, 
and she hears coarse words and loud voices, and 
the boys are rough ; and she has nothing to wear 
to Sunday-school. You used to care more about 
her before you were sick, and now how she goes 
looking! And she will grow up and never know 
what a lovely home is like. Sometimes I think 
I want her to go to heaven and have a home 
with father and mother. Jesse struck her last 
week, and she never told me until I found the 
place on her arm. Forest will be kind to her. 
He says he will go into business and give us a 
beautiful home.” 

“ Oh, deary me, deary me, deary me sobbed 
and choked poor old Aunt Martin. “ If I were 
well, things wouldn’t be so. I’d get about if I 


AUNT MARTIN. 


59 


were only well enough. Perhaps that chair 
will make me strong. I’ll get up this very 
afternoon and sit in the old rocking-chair if 
you will only stay with me and not run off 
to Abhy’s.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Martin, weren’t you ever young ? 
And didn’t you want things, and want to go 
somewhere ?” 

‘‘That’s childish. I was a woman grown at 
your age, and had been engaged to be married.” 

“ I’m glad I am childish ; I’ve had to be a 
woman since mother died. Perhaps my second 
childhood has come back,” said Dixie, laughing 
through her tears. 

“ It isn’t like you to worry me when my hack 
aches so,” Aunt Martin whimpered ; “ I am an 
old woman, and you ought to humor me. You’ve 
made my back ache so I can’t get up this after- 
noon, and I know I’ll he bedrid if I stay in bed 
another six months : the doctor says so.” 

“I’m so sorry!” cried Dixie, forgetting her 
own troubles. “Let me bathe your back and 
rub it.” 

“ Don’t jump so sudden ; you shake me all to 
pieces. I’m old and in the way, and nobody 
cares for me — only for what they can get out 
of me. You can sew on the red flannel in here 
as well as at Abby’s, can’t you ? And I’ll show 
you how.” 

“ But Nomie will be so disappointed I” 


60 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


She can go alone, and she can take Abby a 
pie. People needn’t say I never gave Abby 
anything ; I gave her a load of wood all sawed 
and split last winter, and I’ll do it again this 
winter if it keeps so cold. I’ve been thinking 
my life all over, and I want to tell it to you.” 

‘‘Will not this evening do?” 

“ No, this evening will not do, for Mr. Shields 
will be sleepy and go to bed. He sleeps all 
night like a log, and I lie awake and suffer 
and think over all the things I used to do. 
Abby says I’ve been narrow-minded and that 
is why I am not happy now. She says some 
people can take in the whole world on a sick- 
bed. But I never took in a whole world on a 
well-bed. She says my mind grows narrower 
and narrower, and it is just what I might ex- 
pect, nothing hut work and save all my life. 
She says I may be thankful that I am not in 
an insane asylum ; she saw in a paper that ever 
so many farmers’ wives did go insane, and she 
knows it was working and saving and fretting 
that did it. Perhaps my mind is going and 
that is why my head burns so.” 

“I’ll brush your hair and bring your mind 
back, then,” said Dixie ; “ my brushing always 
cools and quiets your head. I will not go to 
Abby’s; I’ll run out and tell Nomie to go with- 
out me and take a pie to her. And perhaps I 
can sing to you while I brush your hair.” 


AUNT MARTIN. 


61 


No ; I want to talk to you. I want to tell 
you how I saw the girl with eyes, and how I 
didn’t go to her house to make trouble for her.” 

Wait a moment, and I’ll soon be back.” 

The horses were ready ; Forest and Nomie were 
waiting impatiently in the kitchen. Schenck, with 
Dixie’s apron tied around his neck, was making 
beef-tea for Cousin Sylvie. 

‘‘The butcher came, and I got two pounds 
for beef-tea,” he said, apologetically; “she has 
seemed weaker of late, and the doctor says if we 
don’t build her up she’ll slip away from us. I 
told Mr. Shields, and he said she must have beef- 
tea every day. He’s fond of her in his way, 
Shields is.” 

“And, Dixie,” burst in Forest, “I’m going 
home Christmas, and I’m not coming back un- 
less — ” He drew her toward him and ^whis- 
pered something. 

Dixie lifted her hand to push him aside. Did 
her mother mean her to do such a thing as this, 
even for Nomie ? Did God mean her to do such 
a thing as this for Nomie’s sake? Wouldn’t he 
take care of Nomie? I think the red flannel 
had something to do with it, too ; God usually 
mixes up human kindness with his own love and 
preventing. 

Forest turned angrily and went out. 

“ Aren’t you going ?” cried Nomie. 

“ Not to-day, little girl. Aunt Martin isn’t so 


62 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


well to-day ; she is excited and talkative, and I 
am to stay with her and sew for you. Run up 
stairs to the kitchen store-room and bring me 
that roll of red flannel in the top of the drab 
chest, and 111 tell you what I am going to make 
for you. You can help Mr. Savage ; perhaps he 
would like to make some of his perfect cookies 
for Aunt Martin. — And if Forest comes in again, 
Mr. Savage, please tell him that I am not going.” 

Aunt Martin looked at the flannel, and felt it : 

‘‘ IVe had that in the house seven years, and I 
don’t believe there’s a moth-hole in it. I knew 
the time would come when I would want to use 
it.” 

That time had come to Dixie years ago. 

Now let me see you sew. Schenck gives me 
the ^dgcts when he sews. He drops his work 
and looks at me when I talk, but I know you 
can look at me and sew too. What is your best 
dress now ?” 

Dixie lifted her arm, showing the worn green 
sleeve : 

I am wearing my best dress in the kitchen ; 
I had to borrow one of yours when I went to 
church. I intended to tell you before, but I 
haven’t thought of it.” 

“It wasn’t my brown satin?” she cried, in 
alarm. 

“ Oh no,” smiled Dixie ; “ nor the black silk. 


AUNT MARTIN. 


63 


nor the red cashmere that you used to wear thirty 
years ago : it was the blue-and-brown plaid with 
open sleeves.” 

You didn’t catch it on anything or get din- 
ner in it ?” in an anxious voice. 

“ Oh no, indeed ! I didn’t injure it in the 
least.” 

“ I had that on when the experience I am going 
to tell you happened to me. Don’t you like true 
stories ?” 

I don’t like any other kind.” 

“ Perhaps you had better mend Mr. Shields’s 
coat before you begin on that flannel ; Schenck 
said he would do it, but he has had other flsh to 
fry this long time.” 

Without a word Dixie rolled up the flannel 
and put it aside. She could sew at night for 
Nomie ; that would not be Aunt Martin’s time. 

‘Mt is time for my drops ; they will take this 
creeping feeling out of my back. But it costs so 
much that it is like swallowing melted gold dol- 
lars ; I’m glad flve drops at a time makes a dose. I 
suppose the doctor thinks that because I own 
this farm clear I’ve got a gold-mine in the cellar. 
He doesn’t know how tight Mr. Shields holds 
the purse-strings ; if he held me half so tight, I 
should choke. But it is a comfort that he doesn’t 
waste anything. I don’t dare to speak of any- 
thing ; if I do, he’ll spend money for it.” 

‘‘ Oh, Aunt Martin, I wish you wouldn’t think 


64 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


about money. Uncle Martin will take good care 
of you. It is so sweet for you to have all this 
time to be quiet and think and be ready — ’’ 

Aunt Martin lay still for some time after 
taking her drops. She looked older and more 
worn to-day ; her lips twitched nervously. 
Dixie chid herself for cruelty in harassing 
her feelings to such an extent, resolving to 
stay and nurse her as long as she needed any- 
body’s care. Now that Frank, with his bold 
black eyes, was going away, the house would be 
more like a home to Nomie. 

The coat needed much patching; the short 
afternoon would be ended before Dixie’s task 
was done. But something had been decided ; 
had she decided it herself, or who had? Lift- 
ing her eyes from her work, she watched the 
pale, sunken face with the nervous eyelids and 
the non-submissive lips. Had the old woman 
brought herself to this by living a narrow life ? 
Would she — Dixie — ^bring herself to an unlovely 
old age by living her present narrow life ? She 
seldom read anything besides her chapter in the 
Bible at night ; she met very few people ; she 
arose in the morning and worked all day until 
night; she had no amusement. Her only rec- 
reation was her little sister ; her only rest was 
prayer. What did she know about other peo- 
ple’s lives ? What was the big, busy world to 
her? What were other girls living for — the 


AUNT MARTIN. 


65 


girls who played the piano and worked with 
pretty wools instead of mending an old coat 
that was stiff with dirt and odorous of the 
stable; the girls who read many books and 
wore rich clothes and went to church and con- 
certs, and who had friends and expected to be 
married? Forest would marry one of those 
girls and forget all about her ; he would whis- 
per those same words to a girl in a soft cash- 
mere dress — a girl with fingers that would 
shrink from touching a piece of work like this. 
How she would love to be one of those girls! 
She had been one of those girls before her 
mother died; she had been one until her guard- 
ian died. She had gone to school and dressed 
like the other girls, and had taken music-lessons 
and made pretty things for Christmas presents. 
And now all she could do for any one was to 
make up this hardly-won red flannel for her 
poor little sister, who did not know what Christ- 
mas was like to other girls. Forest would go 
away and take with him all her opportunity of 
being like other girls. No one would ever again 
offer her a home like the one he would have 
given to her — and to Nomie. But if God had 
given her the opportunity, would he not also give 
her the love with it ? Had he given the love to 
Forest? Oh how things in this world were 
mixed up! She could not understand. Could 
her mother have made it clear to her ? Did God 


6 


66 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


ever speak to girls who had no mother as their 
mother would have spoken ? 

“As one whom his mother comforteth.” Some- 
how, Dixie was comforted. She could not have 
told you anything about it, only that she felt 
differently and was no longer yearning to he 
like other girls. As a mother comforts us just 
by being mother to us, do you not think the 
Lord may comfort just by being himself to us? 

“ Dixie, I wish you had some time to read and 
grow wiser. Don’t be narrow ; don’t lose your 
mind by not using it. Isn’t there something 
about taking away even that which a man hath ? 
You must go to church every Sunday after this ; 
I used to make excuses for staying home. Do 
you read the Bible every day?” How pitiful 
and pleading the old voice was! Did Aunt 
Martin really love her? 

“ Don’t you want to go to sleep while I sit 
here ? You must be very tired.” 

“No; I want to talk. I’ve been thinking 
about myself. I didn’t read much when I was 
a girl ; mother never let me have time. I wish 
I had a Daily Light to read in every day, the 
way Abby does. Abhy isn’t narrow ; she knows 
what is happening. I think I’ll let Mr. Shields 
get me a Daily Light the next time he goes to 
town.” 

“ Why, Aunt Martin, I have one — an old one 
of mother’s ; I’ll go up to my trunk now and find 


AUNT MARTIN 


67 


it, and read to you the selections for the day. It 
is all Bible words, you know.’’ 

‘‘ Yes, I know. I want all Bible. I don’t want 
geography or grammar or William Wallace or the 
battle of Bannockburn, that Naomi talks about. 
That would have been good long ago, but I want 
all Bible now. I’ve read it through more than 
twice, too, but I never get at the meaning as 
Abby does.” 

Dixie dropped the coat upon the carpet and 
ran up stairs to her own chamber. In a trunk 
in which were stored treasures that had belonged 
to her mother she found the worn book. She 
had taken it from under her mother’s pillow that 
afternoon she died, and had not opened it since. 
Almost every margin was covered with fine writ- 
ing. What a treasure it was, indeed ! Those dear 
penciled words ! She had been longing for her 
mother’s voice, and now she might almost hear it. 
She kissed it again and again in an ecstasy of 
tears. 


IT. 


‘‘Daily Light.” 


“ UNT MAKTIN, it is the twelfth of Decem- 



^ her ; I will read the verses for morning and 
evening.” 

Aunt Martin closed her eyes in perfect con- 
tent. Her moods were like a child’s moods, and 
she was as easily satisfied as a child. 

Dixie read in a voice that was comfort itself : 

“ ‘ The Lord is in the midst of thee. 

“‘Fear not; for I am with thee: he not dis- 
mayed; for I am thy God. I will strengthen 
thee ; yea, I will help thee ; yea, I will uphold 
thee with the right hand of my righteousness. 
Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the 
feehle knees. 

“ ‘ Say to them that are of a fearful heart. Be 
strong, fear not; hehold, your God will come 
with vengeance, even God with a recompense; 
he will come and save you. The Lord thy God 
in the midst of thee is mighty ; he will save, he 
will rejoice over thee with joy ; he will rest in 
his love, he will joy over thee with singing. 


68 


^ DAILY light: 


69 


‘‘ ‘ Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and 
he shall strengthen thy heart. 

‘‘ ^ I heard a great voice out of heaven, saying. 
Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and 
he will dwell with them, and he their God. 

‘‘‘And God shall wipe away all tears from 
their eyes; and there shall he no more death, 
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there 
he any more pain.’ ” 

Then, turning to the back of the book, Dixie 
read the selections for the evening : 

“ ‘ Wherefore criest thou unto me ? Speak 
unto the children of Israel, that they go for- 
ward. 

“ ‘ Be of good courage, and let us behave our- 
selves valiantly for our people, and for the cities 
of our God : and let the Lord do that which is 
good in his sight. 

“ ‘ We made a prayer unto our God, and set a 
watch against them day and night. 

“‘Not every one that saith unto me. Lord, 
Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven ; 
but he that doeth the will of my Father which 
is in heaven. 

“‘If any man will do his will, he shall know 
of the doctrine whether it be of God. 

“ ‘ Then shall we know if we follow on to know 
the Lord. 

“‘Watch and pray, that ye enter not into 
temptation. 


70 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘‘Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you 
like men, he strong. 

“‘Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; 
serving the Lord. 

“ ‘ Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm 
the feeble knees. Say to them that are of a 
fearful heart. Be strong, fear not.”’ 

Closing the book, Dixie again took up her 
distasteful work. If this were her father’s old 
coat, how gladly would she take the stitches ! 

The eyelids had ceased quivering; the tired 
heart and the weary brain were finding rest in 
sleep. 

It was dusk when Aunt Martin opened her 
eyes, and Dixie was putting wood in the fire; 
the light from the open stove door flickered over 
the wall. Dixie had not had a quiet afternoon 
like this for a long while ; she felt as if she had 
been with her mother. At intervals she had 
dropped her needle and given herself up to 
the exquisite pleasure of reading her mother’s 
words in her mother’s handwriting. The words 
were mostly thoughts upon the text ; once in a 
while Dixie found some reference to herself and 
Nomie, and once to her mother’s friend Buth 
Strong. On one of the fly-leaves was written 
in a hand that she did not recognize : “ Buth 
Herbert, from her loving cousin, Buth Mere- 
dith Strong.” The date was seventeen years 
old. 


^ DAILY light: 


71 


‘‘ Dixie, come sit on the bed again and let me 
tell you about that big German and that yellow- 
haired girl with braids.” 

Dixie thought she knew all about them. The 
red flannel was temptingly near her hand; if 
she might only light the candle and begin her 
Christmas work for Nomie! 

‘‘ Don’t light the candle ; the glare hurts my 
eyes, and I like to see that light from the stove.” 

Dixie was hardly disappointed ; she so rarely 
did her own will that sometimes she wondered 
if she had any will to do. Seating herself upon 
the bed, she found the outstretched hand ready 
to be rubbed. More than once or twice she had 
come shivering down stairs in the night to rub 
Aunt Martin’s hands or her back. 

‘‘Sarah Harper says she has never had any 
chance to be anybody — that people have spoiled 
her life for her. And she said once that I was 
spoiling your life and keeping you from having 
a chance.” 

“A chance for what ?” questioned Dixie, smil- 
ing all to herself in the firelight. 

“ To be somebody, I suppose. She is always 
bewailing that she never had a chance herself. 
But Abby says that people that behave them- 
selves always have chances. Abby knows a 
man who went to Europe and found a wife 
there, and the woman, when she was home, 
lived next door to him, and he had never 


72 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


noticed her. I supjDOse she thought she had a 
great chance in going to Europe, and that it 
would have been no chance at all to stay home 
and marry the man next door. No, I don’t 
bewail my poor chances as Sarah does; I be- 
lieve in Providence and behaving yourself. I 
haven’t run around after anything ; I could have 
broken my back just as easily in somebody else’s 
cellar as in my own. It was a providence that I 
happened to be standing in the doorway that 
afternoon with that dress on that you wore to 
church. How many years ago ? I wasn’t forty 
then. I don’t believe I was pretty-looking; I 
had a mole over my left eyebrow and my hair 
would curl as tight as a corkscrew. I had been 
working hard ; the sewing society was just gone, 
and I had done all the baking myself. John 
wouldn’t come in to supper — he was getting in 
hay, for a shower was threatening — and I re- 
member at the table there was no man to ask a 
blessing, and I couldn’t let folks eat at my table 
without a blessing ; so I had to ask it myself. I 
hated to do it before folks, but I hated more not 
to have it done. It’s hard enough to do right, and 
sometimes it’s so hard we don’t do it. Well, as 
I was telling you, a buggy drove in and a man 
looked out — a big German man with the longest 
sandy whiskers, and spectacles — and called out 
to know if Mr. Vorhees was home.” 

The patient listener had heard all this ten 


^ DAILY light: 


73 


times, if not twenty; but she listened with all 
the appearance of interest she could assume. 

I think I had gone to the door to hang the 
tea-towels on the rose-bush by the door, and I 
stayed a minute to see if I knew who was in the 
buggy driving in. I told him to go up the lane 
and find John or come in and wait — that I had 
the milking-thin gs to see to and couldn’t go for 
him myself. He looked at me, and then at his 
watch, and then up the lane, and then at me 
again ; and then he said he would call early in 
the morning. And next morning he did come 
early to find John before he went up into the 
field. He came to the kitchen door and knocked, 
and then came right in. I was churning; I 
always churned myself, because the boy churned 
too fast and heated the butter, and I liked to 
churn before breakfast with the doors open, so 
I could look out and see the sun rise. He came 
in and stood and talked and asked questions. I 
tried to keep the dasher going, but I soon had to 
give it up. I thought he wanted to buy the 
place, he asked so many questions. He told 
me all about himself He was a piano-maker, 
as were his father and grandfather before him, 
over in Germany; and when he went over — 
he was born in this country — he played on a 
six-legged one that his grandfather had made: 
they don’t make them so nowadays. He stayed 
there a while. He was quite young, and he 


74 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


didn’t know if he had been baptized — ^he never 
had been told — and they wanted to confirm him 
oyer there ; so he wrote to this country, to his 
father, to know. And his father sent a paper 
signed by somebody, hut it was written in Eng- 
lish, and the minister couldn’t read English ; so 
he took it for granted that he had been baptized, 
and then he confirmed him as they do in Ger- 
many. And when he came home, his father said 
that the paper meant that he hadn’t been bap- 
tized ; and he had been confirmed without being 
baptized, and he was in a quandary and didn’t 
know what to do. He said he had talked with 
ministers, priests and deacons about it, and he 
couldn’t see his way clear. He didn’t know what 
kind of a Christian he was.” 

Dixie laughed; she always laughed at this 
part of the story. 

Then why couldn’t he begin to be a Christian 
and be baptized ?” She asked this question with 
impatient earnestness. 

So I told him, but he couldn’t understand at 
all ; I wouldn’t have believed that things I knew 
so well could be so dark to him. He couldn’t 
understand what I meant by being a Christian ; 
he thought baptism made him a Christian, and 
that the time for that was for ever past. He was 
as simple as a child about it, and I couldn’t help 
wanting to help him. It gave us something to 
talk about, any way, and I tried to do my duty 


^DAILY light: 


75 


by him. Soon John came hurrying in, and 
breakfast wasn’t ready, for the first time in his 
life. The German man stayed to breakfast. 
And I had a good breakfast; I know I had 
eggs, and he liked them, they were so fresh. 
He stood around after breakfast, and asked me 
all about how I managed ; and I told him the 
farm and everything was mine if John never 
had any children. I’ve forgotten what he came 
to see J ohn about ; I’m sure I didn’t forget to 
ask John. And wasn’t I surprised when the very 
next week John brought me a letter from him ! 
I never had a letter from anybody, and I was 
surprised. He wrote that his wife had been dead 
over seven months and he hadn’t found a wife, 
although he had been looking around some time. 
He liked me better than anybody he had seen. 
He had children. That was a drawback — seven 
drawbacks : he had seven. He owned a brick 
house, two stories and basement, and had two 
thousand dollars invested in a railroad ; and he 
wanted me to go and look at his house. Mother 
had been dead three years, so I had only John 
to consult. John was two years younger, but he 
had good judgment about most things. He was 
in an old-fashioned consumption, and coughed 
some of his lungs up every time he took a fresh 
cold ; and I hated to show him the letter, any 
way. But I got courage at last as I was going 
out to milk ; I handed it to him, and then went 


76 


DAVID STRONG^S ERRAND. 


out as fast as I could. I trembled so that I could 
hardly milk old Sukey, and I didn’t wonder that 
she lashed her tail in my face, for I know I hurt 
her. And then John came out and spoke over 
the gate, and told me to do as I liked ; and per- 
haps Sallie Wayne would come if I left, and make 
a home for him. I knew he had been thinking 
of Sallie in a sheepish sort of way for years, and 
this had brought him to a decision. I didn’t say 
anything in reply. I never do when I have 
much to say; and talking wasn’t his way, either. 
We didn’t look in each other’s face all the next 
day, we were both so ashamed. You see, we 
were neither of us very young, and it did seem 
unlooked for that we should both be thinking of 
young folks’s nonsense. John was an elder, too, 
and I did hope it wouldn’t interfere with his 
usefulness. We had family worship then, and a 
blessing asked. I do pray that time may come 
again in my house, if I don’t die too soon. That 
night I ran over to Abby’s and asked her to 
write a letter to him for me. She wouldn’t, but 
Sallie did. I set him a certain day to go over 
his house. Sallie asked me what John would do 
now for a housekeeper, but she didn’t look con- 
fused, as girls do, and I began to be afraid for 
poor John. I made Abby promise to go with 
me ; I would rather have her than Sallie. Sallie 
wanted to go ; it didn’t seem to surprise her. I 
dressed in my best. That very summer my 


^ DAILY light: 


77 


brown satin was made up ; I only wore it on 
grand occasions. I planned to be married in 
it. Vll give it to you when I don’t need it 
any longer ; you look nice in brown — almost as 
nice as I did. Abby didn’t want to go ; she said 
she pitied the children — ^poor things ! — with their 
mother not a year dead. She talked to me about 
my duty, and I felt every word of it. A pretty 
girl with red cheeks and yellow hair opened the 
door for us ; when I first saw you, I almost 
thought it was that girl. Her eyes looked as 
though she had been crying. She said her father 
had told her a lady was coming from the country 
and she must show her every room and closet. 
Abby talked a little to her in the room when I 
was opening the drawers in the closet to see how 
deep they were. We saw the baby and two 
others ; the rest had gone to school. The Ger- 
man woman in the kitchen looked hard at me. 
They all seemed to like Abby. One of the 
toddlings said to her, ‘Are you my new mam- 
ma?’ I wished she was. The father came 
pretty soon; he was very polite and wanted 
me to set the day the next week. But such 
a look had been in that girl’s eyes while she 
watched me looking at the kitchen things that 
I couldn’t do it, to save my life. I dreamed of 
her that night, and the next day made Sallie 
write that I’d never set the day at all. What 
with that girl’s eyes and not being sure that 


78 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Sallie would have John, I couldn’t go. I never 
did know about Sallie and John. Why, there 
conies Mr. Shields, and you will have to go and 
see to supper. That hook has done me a world 
of good. Slip it under my pillow ; I sha’n’t need 
to buy one now.” 

Dixie held the precious book tightly in her 
fingers ; she had expected to keep it under her 
own pillow, that she and Nomie might be com- 
forted with it the last moment at night and the 
first moment in the morning. 

After they were snug in bed that night — ^the 
last hour at night was their time for confidences 
— Dixie told Nomie the story Aunt Martin had 
told her. 

“ Martin Luther was a German and he loved 
music, but I don’t believe he married Catherine 
von Bora that way,” was the child’s character- 
istic reply. 

Dixie thought about the girl that looked like 
her. Was she sorry or was she glad that she 
and her little sister were with Aunt Martin in- 
stead ? 


f 


V. 

Chkistmas Cheek. 

O H how cold it was on Christmas morning! 

The water was frozen in the pitcher in 
Dixie’s chamber, and the one window was so 
covered with frost-work that she could not look 
through it. Yesterday morning the thermome- 
ter had stood at four degrees below zero, and this 
morning it must be just as low. Forest had 
brought the thermometer into the house yester- 
day, saying that it was so cold he felt sorry for 
it. 

The alarm-clock had not awakened Dixie at 
half-past five; she had set it at half-past six, 
indulging herself in the Sunday-morning luxury 
of an extra hour in the warm, soft bed. Aunt 
Martin’s feather beds and blankets were famous 
in that part of the country. 

Dixie lifted her head. Such a cold world as 
it was to jump out into ! And how would things 
be down stairs ? The pumps had been “ let off 
they would not be frozen, but the water in the 
pails would be, and the bread on the closet shelf, 
perhaps, and the potatoes she had sliced last night 

r 79 


80 


DAVID STEONG’S ERRAND. 


to fry for breakfast. Frank was gone, and there 
was no one to make the fire for her. But Christ- 
mas Day should not begin with forebodings. With 
a little laugh all to herself, she tossed off the warm 
coverings and sprang out to the carpet. Bag 
carpets and comfortable bedding abounded in 
Aunt Martin’s house. Aunt Martin did not 
mind things being used if they were not used 
up. 

How Nomie was sleeping this morning ! and 
there was her stocking stuffed over her head, the 
big toe almost dangling into her face. But No- 
mie would not awake until she could not avoid 
it; she dreaded cold as Dixie dreaded despair. 
Dixie once said that she was not so much more 
hopeful than other people, only despair would 
kill her ; so she had to hope. What Dixie was 
she had to be. The cold was to Nomie the only 
dark side of life, as not having some one to love 
was the only dark side to Dixie. When Nomie 
had pneumonia, two years ago, how near she had 
come to that dark side ! The return of that time 
was Dixie’s dread. They slept between blankets 
for Nomie’s sake, and the hot brick wrapped in 
newspaper was taken up stairs at night for the 
sake of Nomie’s two little cold feet. Dixie would 
have kept the sun always shining and the ther- 
mometer at eighty all the year round if she could. 
But God could keep Nomie warm, and did not : 
she had a little hack of a cough now ; and did 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


81 


Dixie want to do what God didn’t want to do ? 
There were oranges growing and warm breezes 
blowing somewhere in his world, and Nomie was 
his dear little child. Dixie was brushing her 
long hair with stiffened fingers as she said this 
to herself. And before this time came she must 
fill her life with sunshine and keep her from the 
snow-storms. 

It would not be an easy thing to do to-day. 
Uncle Martin was more silent and unsympathetic 
than usual on holidays. Dixie was beginning to 
surmise that something troubled him greatly ; he 
had seemed different since that night at prayer- 
meeting when Aunt Martin had coaxed him to 
go, and Mr. Savage had said that Uncle Martin 
had almost groaned when the minister talked 
about will arise and go to my father.” If 
he were so troubled, she could not expect him to 
care for Nomie’s Christmas ; but she was disap- 
pointed that Forest and Mr. Savage had given 
her nothing to put into the stocking which the 
child had so confidently hung upon the bed-post. 
How little she herself had gathered together to 
drop into it! One orange — Aunt Martin had 
given her that — ^some hickory-nuts, that Joe had 
cracked ; three sticks of stale candy, that Jesse 
had bought for her at the store ; and a handful 
of raisins, that she had saved out of the mince- 
pies. Perhaps Nomie had forgotten that bounti- 
ful Christmas at their guardian’s and this would 


82 


DAVID STBONG’S ERRAND, 


seem nice, especially the orange. How she had 
wanted for her little sister a game to amnse her 
when she could not use her eyes to read and her 
back ached so that she could not help in the 
kitchen ! And a new slate : the old one of Gil- 
bert’s was so cracked, and half of the frame was 
gone. Uncle Martin had promised her another ; 
he was very kind to her, hut he had forgotten it. 
And the hood and the mittens ! But Dixie could 
not worry about them, because she was praying 
for them. She had not been quite ready to pray 
for the game and the slate. 

Like some of the rest of us, Dixie was sure that 
God did not like to see his children suffer ; but 
she was not so sure that he wanted them to have 
a good time. The hood was fitted to a prayer, 
but the game? She prayed for Nomie’s back to 
be strengthened, but she had never quite put the 
word “ sea-bathing ” into her petitions. It was 
in her thought, though, and God could make a 
word out of it. How little she knew what he 
was making out of it ! How little she knew the 
good that was coming this Christmas Day ! How 
little Martin Shields knew the good and the evil 
as he arose grumbling and in reply to his wife’s 
‘‘Merry Christmas!” said gruffly, “No good ever 
came to me yet on a Christmas Day.” 

No, Martin Shields ; it was on Christmas Day 
that you forged your father’s name, and he had 
wished you “Merry Christmas!” that morning, 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


83 


Nomie darling Dixie was rising from her 
knees, where she had been shivering under the 
remnant of a blanket-shawl. Here it is merry 
Christmas, and you are fast asleep. Hun down 
to Aunt Martin’s room and dress, and kiss her 
for Merry Christmas.” She herself would not 
kiss her aunt for Christmas until she took in 
her morning cup of tea. 

As Dixie opened the dining-room door what a 
rush of hot air greeted her ! The air-tight was 
red hot in several places, and the odor of coffee 
cheered her from that frozen region of the kitchen 
she had dreaded. Would she ever dread any- 
thing again ? 

Schenck was bending an absorbed face over 
the kitchen stove, deftly turning a buckwheat 
browned to perfection. The potatoes were fried, 
the sausage was sizzling in the frying-pan. 

“ Mr. Savage ! Oh, Mr. Savage ! You are too 
good ! I don’t know how to thank you. And 
did you set the table and do every single thing 
yourself?” 

Schenck was too busy to turn his head, but 
Dixie saw his face beaming with unmistakable 
delight. 

I wish I could do something for your Christ- 
mas. You picked those chickens for me yester- 
day, too. This is a lovely Christmas present. 
There never was a man like you.” 

To Schenck’s utter bewilderment and Dixie’s 


84 


DAVID STRONG’S EEEAND. 


own laughing surprise, the next instant both her 
arms were about his shoulders and she had kissed 
the top of his bald head. He was an old fellow 
with a bald gray head and a defect in his right 
eye — altogether too old to expect to be kissed; 
but no kiss ever gave his heart such a thrill be- 
fore. He stammered and colored and tried to 
laugh, but came nearer crying. 

‘‘And Aunt Martin’s cup of tea ! You have 
thought of everything.” 

“ Yes, if you please,” nervously spilling some* 
batter on the griddle. “ There’s a little present 
for Nomie in Cousin Sylvie’s room — a hood : I 
thought she needed one; and — and some little 
thing for you, if you’ll take it.” 

How glad was Dixie because she had kissed 
him ! She almost kissed him again. As she 
left the room with the steaming cup of tea he 
brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. 
“She won’t be sorry she kissed me,” he mut- 
tered. 

Aunt Martin greedily seized the cup ; she had 
not slept since midnight, and she had counted 
every stroke of the clock as one hour nearer that 
cup of tea. 

Mr. Shields had groaned and tossed all night, 
she told Dixie, and she knew it was something 
more than “getting along” that was troubling 
him. 

“I wish he wasnH troubled,” said Dixie. 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


85 


‘‘When he sees you bright and patient, that 
helps him, Aunt Martin.” 

“ ‘ Bright and patient ’ !” repeated Aunt Mar- 
tin. “ Me ? On this sick-bed ?” 

“ But you are going to sit up two hours to-day 
— an hour this morning, and an hour this after- 
noon.” 

“ I don’t know ; I’ll see. I wish there was 
something to get up for.” 

“ Why, there’s everything,” cried Dixie ; 
“there’s Uncle Martin to cheer up, and Gil- 
bert to be pleasant to. There’s something real 
the matter with Gilbert ; Frank came and whis- 
tled for him last night. I can’t tell Uncle 
Martin, but Gilbert ought to be understood. 
And he loves you.” 

“ He came in here last night just as the room 
was getting dark; and I had no light, and I 
tried to talk to him. He stood a long time 
over there by the bureau, and I asked him to 
get me a handkerchief out of the upper drawer ; 
and he fumbled a long time, and got it. His 
face did look strange as he opened the stove door 
to put some wood in, and I asked him if he felt 
well, and if he would ask you to get him some 
currant jelly for his supper; but he wouldn’t 
talk. I heard Frank whistle after that. His 
father asked me who it was ; and when I said, 
‘Frank,’ he said he would order him off the 
place. But you haven’t seen your Christmas 


86 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


presents. I hope Schenck’s heart is relieved, 
and I hope you feel paid for staying with me. 
I gave him the money for your shawl, but he 
bought the dress himself, and cut and made 
every stitch of both of them. His heart is as 
big as a pumpkin.” 

‘‘I don’t see any Christmas presents,” said 
Dixie, looking around the room. 

‘‘Under that sheet on that chair in the corner; 
he’s kept everything as close as a girl keeps her 
first love-letter. How you have scared him com- 
ing in unexpected ! I was afraid he would lose 
all the little wits he ever had.” 

Dixie had drawn the sheet aside. Such a 
piled-up chair! A blue hood for Nomie, and 
blue mittens to match. And a dress — a red- 
and-hlack plaid with three ruffles on the skirt 
and some white lace sewed in the neck. 

“ Oh, Nomie, Nomie, Nomie I” she cried. 

“ But where’s yours ?” Aunt Martin was actu- 
ally sitting up in bed with her empty tea-cup in 
her hand. 

“ This shawl. Blue and gray — ^so pretty ! 
And I did want it so ! Aunt Martin, how 
good you are 1” 

“ It cost eight dollars ; it is a very fine quality, 
and I hope you’ll keep it wrapped in newspaper 
and use it only on Sundays. I’ve had one forty- 
three years.” 

“And this brown — Why, it is a dress for 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


87 


me ! Was there ever such a man? With ruffles 
on the skirt, too ! Where did he learn the fash- 
ion? And the sleeves trimmed with brown- 
velvet ribbon ! But he didn’t do it all himself?” 

“ You wouldn’t think so if you knew how he 
has bothered me. He had a dress of yours for a 
pattern, and an old one of Nomie’s too, to meas- 
ure by. And he has made over that one of mine 
that you wore to church ; I thought it would 
save this one. Such sewing ! Look at the sew- 
ing! I couldn’t do better myself. He brought 
me the pieces from town, and I chose both the 
dresses. Look in the band-box, child. Are 
you so dazed you can’t see anything ? Mr. 
Shields gave Sarah Harper the money, and she 
bought the hat for you — a brown felt trimmed 
with brown velvet. Now who says you can’t 
go to church ? There’s gloves there too — cloth 
gloves.” 

“ I can’t say anything,” cried Dixie ; I want 
to say everything.” 

^‘Now you won’t want to go away,” Aunt 
Martin cried, triumphantly; ^‘and Mr. Shields 
says if the peaches are not frozen out he’ll give 
you regular wages next summer. And he has 
found a woman to do the washing. I told him 
you liked to iron and Schenck would help you.” 

‘‘How kind you all are! Aunt Martin, I 
really don’t deserve so much.” 

“You are a pretty good girl on the whole. 


DAVID STBONG’S ERBAND. 


even if you haven’t had much experience,” 
conceded Aunt Martin; ‘^and nobody else but 
you can rub me.” 

Dixie flew up stairs and brought down Nomie 
and her stocking. Schenck was impatiently ring- 
ing the breakfast-bell at the shed door. 

Before all were seated at the table a flying 
flgure in a red dress, crowned with the blue 
hood, and with two cold hands encased in the 
blue mittens, had sprung into Schenck’s arms 
and was kissing him again and again. The 
brown dress was more demure in its thanks ; 
but if ever Martin Shields and Schenck Savage 
saw gratitude and delight in human eyes, they 
saw these emotions this Christmas morning in 
the two pairs of blue eyes so nearly alike that 
were brimming over with sunshine. Nomie 
kissed Uncle Martin, but Dixie did not dare to 
kiss him. 

Each of the boys had something from Schenck 
and their father. Martin found a gold pen under 
his plate, from his wife and Schenck ; Schenck 
himself was the only one who had no Christmas 
present, but he thought he had most of all. 

Aunt Martin’s oranges and white grapes went 
in with her breakfast. Her husband’s gift was a 
china candlestick and a box of flne candles. 
Dixie hoped he would like this Christmas day. 

Gilbert looked very much embarrassed over 
his handsome skates ; when he thanked his 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


89 


father, his Thank you, sir,” was scarcely audi- 
ble. Poor Gilbert! he did not join in any of 
the merriment at breakfast, and went off skat- 
ing before his father had risen from the table. 
Dixie was glad afterward that she had pressed 
him to eat one more hot cake. 

Forest had wished them all ‘‘Merry Christ- 
mas” and bade them “Good-bye” the day be- 
fore. He assured Dixie that he would certainly 
come again in the summer, and she must be glad 
to see him. She would not promise, and he left 
her feeling himself more indignant than broken- 
hearted. Dixie had a heartache for him. 

The boys started to go skating immediately 
after breakfast, but not before they had gone 
into their mother’s room to kiss her and boister- 
ously wish her a “ Merry Christmas.” 

“ I haven’t seen Gilbert,” she said, anxiously ; 
“ he passed the window, but he didn’t look in.” 

“ Oh, Gil is going somewhere with Frank ; he 
wouldn’t take me along,” said Jesse. 

Martin Shields spent the morning in his wife’s 
room. During the first hour he sat by the stove 
with his head dropped into his hands, not volun- 
teering a word. His wife fidgeted and fretted, 
but he gave no sign that he was conscious of 
her discomfort. At last she sighed and asked 
for a glass of water. He brought it to her, set 
the empty glass on the bureau, and then drew a 
chair to the bedside. Her shrunken hand lay on 


90 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


the bright quilt, the fingers moving nervously. 
Dixie would have taken the fingers into her own 
and pressed life and courage into them. Martin 
Shields never lovingly touched his wife’s hand ; 
she did not miss any tenderness : she never 
thought of it. 

‘‘ Sylvie, I have deceived you,” he began, in a 
low voice ; I was not worthy of you, and you 
ought to know it.” 

The old woman’s eyes sought his ; she could 
not mistake the anguish in every line of his 
face. 

I have been a very bad man ; you would be 
shocked to know all the wickedness I have com- 
mitted. I was a bad boy ; I was worse than 
Frank, and I made other boys bad as he has 
tried to make Gilbert. I deceived my father for 
years; at last I robbed him and ran away and 
went to sea. I repented afterward, but I could not 
find him ; it was twenty years later when I went 
home, and he had given up his business and left 
the place. His partner was dead, and I could 
not find any one who could tell me where my 
father had gone. He was an old man by that 
time — almost as old as I am now; and I sup- 
pose he was dead then. I did not want to make 
myself known, so I stayed but a few hours in the 
place. Perhaps I broke his heart; he had a 
very tender heart, and used to weep when he 
pleaded with me to give up my wickedness, but 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


91 


I thought he was a weak old fogy, and I used to 
tell the boys about the ‘ governor's little weeps ’ 
and imitate his voice and show him off. I’ve 
lived a bad life since then ; you would not have 
married me had you known of all my doings. 
My father tried to educate me, but I shirked 
study ; he had nothing but me, and he loved me 
as a mother would have done. It’s no use to say 
it, but I’d give all the rest of my life to find him 
alive and ready to forgive me. I wish I could 
find him old and poor and dependent upon me 
for his daily bread ; I would like to have him 
sick and to have to feed him. What haven’t I 
thought of since Gilbert has begun to be idle 
and disobedient and dishonest? Yes, dishonest! 
That’s what I’ve been punishing him for. He 
has taken money from me, cheated me and lied 
to me. He is following in my own steps ; what 
I measured to my father is being measured back 
to me. Don’t I know now what my father suf- 
fered ? My father was loving to me, and it isn’t 
my way to show love in words as he did ; I can’t 
do it : I’m not made so. But if my father loved 
me better than I love my boy, God forgive me 
for disgracing him.” 

Aunt Martin was shedding weak tears ; she 
did not know what to do or to say. She could 
not comfort him in his distress; she could not 
reproach him for his sins. It was too late; the 
past could not be undone for her. She had mar- 


92 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


ried a wicked man ; but he had been so kind to 
her — so very kind to her — that she could not 
wish it undone for her own sake, nor for his. 
She had tried to be a good wife. The weak tears 
trickled through her fingers, and she brushed 
them away. 

Martin arose, pushed his chair back with a 
half-uttered groan, took out his handkerchief 
and rubbed his eyes; then he poked the fire 
vigorously and shoved in more wood. 

‘‘Isn’t it time to take your medicine?” he in- 
quired, in a thick voice. “ Let me cut up an 
orange for you.” 

“ No,” she said, in a voice made irritable by 
strong feeling ; “ I don’t want anything.” 

But Sylvie did want something : she wanted a 
few words more; she wanted a little petting; she 
wanted to be assured that he was not sorry that 
he had married her. And Martin wanted some- 
thing : he wanted sympathy ; he wanted spoken 
assurances that she had forgiven him ; he wanted 
counsel ; he wanted his father. She covered her 
eyes and feigned sleep, and he took up an old 
newspaper and pretended to read. 

In the hour of need had each failed the other ? 
Why could Sylvie not have accepted his little 
offer of kindness ? Perhaps because she did not 
know how to be gracious ; perhaps because she 
had no tact ; perhaps because she wanted to so 
much : the very wanting to made her shamefaced 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


93 


and shy. Emotion and sentiment had been sup- 
pressed all her life. And Martin ? If it made 
no difference to her, why should he speak ? He 
had spoken, and she had not cared. They were 
both too old to be what they might have been 
fifty years ago. They were too old for anything 
but repentance, and both were repenting with all 
their might — he, of what he had done; she, for 
what she had not been. 

Meanwhile, there was a merry time in the 
kitchen ; Dixie and Nomie and Schenck had the 
place all to their happy selves to cook the Christ- 
mas dinner in. Dixie had donned her old green 
dress again, but Nomie skipped around in all the 
splendor of her red-and-black plaid ; some of the 
time she could not part with her mittens and 
hood. 

Oh, Dix, I can go to Sunday-school Sunday 
and get a book. And you can go too, if Mr. 
Savage will wash the dishes and Aunt Martin 
doesn’t want you.” 

There were tears behind Dixie’s laughter that 
morning, and then she had to laugh again to 
keep the tears back. 

Can’t you go somewhere this afternoon ?” in- 
quired Schenck, anxiously. 

Schenck often spoke anxiously; so many 
things were not as he wanted them to be, and 
he had so little power to set them right. With 
a torn apron tied about his waist, he was beating 


94 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


eggs for a pudding. That shiny black suit had 
to do for every day and Sundays until spring. 

Oh, can’t we ?” pleaded Nomie, eagerly and 
wistfully. ‘‘ I want to go somewhere. Can’t we 
go to Sarah Harper’s or to Miss Abby’s? I’d 
rather go to Miss Abby’s. Wouldn’t you? Or 
do you want to go to the village? You choose,” 
she continued, in the excess of her unselfishness. 

Miss Abby is all alone to-day ; suppose we 
take her some things and make her a little feast 
— Mr. Savage’s jelly-cake and a pie, and some 
roast chicken if there’s any left. Aunt Martin 
will he willing if Sarah asks her.” 

That is like a book. I would like to live in 
a hook ; I never did, before to-day. Can we go 
right after dinner?” 

But there’s poor Aunt Martin in bed ; I want 
her to sit up this afternoon. She is expecting the 
doctor, and she will want to be up. She wrote to 
him — I did, rather — that the medicine is out.” 

Perhaps I might go in and read to her now. 
I’m not helping very much since I broke that 
egg and spilled it on the floor. I am in the reign 
of Henry VHI., and it is thrilling.” 

“ Can’t you pit the raisins for Mr. Savage’s 
pudding? I have to sweep the dining-room, 
and there’s up-stairs work to do.” 

Nomie placed a particularly large raisin be- 
tween Mr. Savage’s lips, but he shook it out on 
the table : 


CHRISTMAS CHEER, 


95 


, ‘‘I never eat raisins — not since a young man I 
knew died in the hospital from eating fruit-cake 
and got a raisin-seed inside of him somewhere. 
They’re dangerous.” 

You say everything is dangerous,” pouted 
Nomie, eating a raisin herself, “and you have 
a dreadful story about everything that’s nice.” 

“ Going around the world I hear of things, and 
it’s well to take warning,” he answered, solemnly. 

“ Dixie, don’t you wish we could be selfish to- 
day— just to-day, because it’s Christmas — and 
read and have a good time?” 

“Just because it is Christmas is the reason 
why we shouldn’t be, don’t you know?” 

Nomie did know: 

“And I suppose even in heaven I can’t be 
selfish just for a day or two.” 

“ By selfish you only mean doing what you 
like best, and I’m very sure you will.” 

“ There will be history enough to learn, won’t 
there ? — the history of everybody.” 

“ Oh, you child !” laughed Mr. Savage. 

“And perhaps I can make history myself by 
telling the angels things about us,” she cried, de- 
lightedly. 

“ Did I everP^ exclaimed Mr. Savage, lifting 
both hands. 

Nomie very serenely finished stoning the rais- 
ins, asking no more questions and hazarding no 
more suggestions. 


96 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


The dinner was a decided success ; every dish 
was cooked to perfection, and many of the closet 
treasures were brought forth to grace the long 
table. Aunt Martin had bidden Dixie do every- 
thing as nicely as she could. She had been 
weeping, and Dixie longed to know the cause 
of the tears. The story would come in time; 
she kept nothing from Dixie. With her aunt 
continually before her, had it not been for Miss 
Abby, Dixie would have been afraid of growing 
old. 

The boys were as hilarious at dinner as they 
dared to be ; their father was even graver than 
usual, but with the gravity each detected an un- 
wonted softness. Joe asked him if he used to go 
skating on Christmas, and Jesse inquired if his 
father always gave him something for Christmas. 
ISTomie ventured, “ Was your father ever cross to 
you and then was so sorry she had thought to 
ask him, for his face worked strangely, and he 
leaned forward on the table before he answered ; 
and then how his voice shook ! 

‘‘I do not say it because he is dead and I 
haven’t seen him for forty years, but my father 
was as a gentle as a woman — more gentle than 
some women — and he would have given every 
drop of blood in his heart to keep me from 
evil. — Boys, where did you say Gilbert had 
gone ?” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” answered Joe. 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


97 


‘‘ Somewhere with Frank/’ added Jesse; ‘Hhey 
went early this morning. Frank’s brother Will 
told me they were going on the railroad.” 

‘‘ Nonsense !” exclaimed their father. Gil- 
bert had no money. He asked me if he might 
go to the mill-pond.” 

‘‘ He wasn’t there,” said Joe. 

“ He wasn’t there at all,” confirmed Jesse. 

Martin Shields refused to taste the Christmas 
pudding; he left the table, and, going to the 
window, stood and stared down the road with his 
hands in his pockets. Over forty years ago that 
other Christmas day was ! Was this another like 
it ? But he had other boys, and a wife ; and his 
father had had only himself. He had disgraced 
his father’s name, so that he had never borne it 
again himself ; and his boy, in a fit of boyish 
impatience and recklessness, was only ‘‘running 
away,” as boys so often did from better fathers. 
He would come back to-morrow — if he dared. 
He had not gone back to his father, and was 
he himself a father that a disobedient son would 
be apt to come back to ? But how over-anxious 
he was ! His conscience was conjuring up a 
horror that had no foundation. Had he not 
planned the work for Gilbert to-morrow and told 
him to think no more of school this winter ? A 
sullen “ Yes, sir,” had been his only reply. That 
sullenness was inherited; in the tone he could 
hear himself as he had answered his own father 


7 


98 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


fifty years ago. The eagles had not eaten his 
eyes out, as it was threatened in the Bible, but 
something worse had gnawed his heart out. The 
boys were exploding at the table at some remark 
of Nomie’s; should he check them? Had he 
checked Gilbert’s high spirits too often? If 
their mother had lived, or if their stepmother 
had been about the house ! Women understood 
and made things run smoothly. Where could 
he find the boy ? But nonsense ! he would soon 
be home and laughing ; he had not laughed much 
since Frank went away. 

Propped up by pillows, arrayed in a fresh cap. 
Aunt Martin ate her dinner with evident relish. 
She would have been a happy woman had her 
husband been a happy man. Every shadow on 
her husband’s face darkened into a heavy cloud 
on her own. He was a dissatisfied man, and she 
was that more deplorable human being an unsat- 
isfied woman. She had read the Bible and prayed 
regularly, and now what was her life to her or to 
anybody else? She made her lamentations to 
Dixie when the girl ran in beaming to see if she 
would have something more ; and was the chicken 
cooked enough ? and weren’t the spiced tomatoes 
nice? and wasnH Mr. Savage’s pudding deli- 
cious ? 

It’s all nice,” she answered, “ if I had a heart 
to enjoy it. Sit right down and let me tell you 
about what Mr, Shields did when he was young.” 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


99 


Dixie listened with the tears in her eyes, for- 
giving all his sternness and gruffness. 

‘‘ But just think ! his repenting,’’ she cried, joy- 
fully. 

That doesn’t change anything now,” was the 
discouraged response. 

‘‘ Why, yes, it does ; it changes everything.” 

I don’t see how ; it can’t bring hack his 
father.” 

Yes, it can. It can do better : it can bring 
him back.” 

“ Dixie, you are a comforter. And how your 
eyes shine ! I haven’t had my ‘ daily light on 
my daily path ’ to-day.” 

No wonder you are dreary, then. I’ll read 
it this minute. When I’m very rich, I’m going 
to give everybody a Daily Lights 

‘‘ I won’t try to sit up to-day ; I don’t care if 
the doctor does find me in bed. I suppose he 
will be sure to come, now he knows the money is 
waiting for him. I hope it will do him more 
good than his medicine has done me.” 

In the dining-room Schenck and Nomie were 
collecting and scraping the dishes. 

“ I’ll do the dishes alone,” said Schenck ; I 
want you to go as soon as you can. — Cousin 
Martin, you will take the girls to Abby’s, won’t 
you ?” 

Yes, if they want to go. I suppose they do 
need a holiday.” 


100 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND, 


‘‘ I’ll stay with Cousin Sylvie, if you don’t want 
to stay. She wants the girls to go to Abby’s ; she 
said so this morning.” 

Then they must be ready in fifteen minutes. 
I’m going to work ; I can’t idle around all day 
like this.” 

Will it he good for you to work so much, Mr. 
Savage?” inquired Nomie, with earnest solici- 
tude. ‘‘You know you can’t work when you 
have the palpitation. Doesn’t your heart beat 
to-day ?” 

“ Not very much,” he answered, with his slow, 
pathetic smile. 

Martin Shields gave the door an impatient 
slam as he passed out. Why didn’t the man put 
on a frock and apron and let his hair grow long, 
and be done with it ? He had no patience with 
him. But that was not remarkable, as he had no 
patience with anybody. How could his rough 
worldliness understand this gentle, meek-spirited 
Christian man ?” 

“ Christmas Day !” muttered Martin Shields as 
he stamped through the snow. “ What besides 
trouble and disgrace has Christmas Day ever 
brought to me?” 

He passed the “shop” on his way to the 
stable. Stopping to shut the door, which was 
swinging back and forth, he espied under a bench 
those handsome new skates he had brought from 
town yesterday. The boy had taken them in his 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


101 


hand as he passed out, and had afterward thrown 
them there. 

Dixie, are you ready?’’ inquired Martin 
Shields at his wife’s door. 

‘‘Not just yet. Uncle Martin.” 

“She is going to read to me, Mr. Shields; 
it won’t take long.” 

Martin Shields stepped inside the door and 
closed it after him. He did not remove his 
hat, and his rubber boots left tracks of snow 
upon the carpet. From sheer force of habit, 
and perhaps with reference to his wife’s com- 
fort, he put a stick of wood into the stove be- 
fore he seated himself near it. He had noticed 
that little book peeping from the edge of the 
pillow. There was a gray look upon his weather- 
beaten face and a dumb endurance in his eyes 
that struck Dixie painfully. Aunt Martin had 
not her glasses on ; for want of them, she missed 
many expressions in her husband’s face. Per- 
haps it was as well ; she did not know how to 
approach him, and still less did she know how 
to comfort him. 

Dixie read with a prayer in her heart that 
Martin would heed the words : 

“‘The kindness and love of God our Saviour 
toward man appeared. 

“ ‘ I have loved thee with an everlasting love. 
In this was manifested the love of God toward 


102 


DAVID STRONG'S ERRAND. 


US, because that God sent his only begotten Son 
into the world, that we might live through him. 

‘ Herein is love, not that we loved God, but 
that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the pro- 
pitiation for our sins. 

‘‘ ‘ When the fullness of time was come, God 
sent forth his Son, made of a woman, made un- 
der the law, to redeem them that were under the 
law, that we might receive the adoption of sons. 

^The Word was made flesh and dwelt among 
us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the 
only begotten of the Father, full of grace and 
truth. 

“ ‘ Great is the mystery of godliness : God was 
manifested in the flesh. 

‘^‘As the children are partakers of flesh and 
blood, he also himself likewise took part of the 
same; that through death he might destroy him 
that had the power of death ; that is, the devil.’ ” 

^H’ll be glad when the devil is destroyed,” 
interrupted Martin Shields, in a loud voice; 
wish I could kill him myself.” 

‘‘We don’t have to kill him,” said Dixie: 
“Christ will do it for us.” 

“That is all about the Father and the Son,” he 
said, interestedly ; “the Father loved and sent, 
and the Son came.” 

How surprised his wife was! Tears of joy 
trembled in her eyes. 

“Dixie, do read it again,” she said. 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


103 


Dixie read it over again. Martin had taken 
off his hat. 

‘‘ Now, I will read the evening selection,’’ said 
Dixie, ‘‘ if Uncle Martin will wait.” 

“ I’ll wait,” he answered. 

Dixie turned the leaves to the very back part 
of the book: 

It is about the Father and the Son because it 
is Christmas Day. I used to think it was more 
the Son’s love than the Father’s ; now I see it 
is all the Father’s love — and all the Son’s love, 
too. One was as glad to send as the other was to 
be sent.” 

The hungering look in Uncle Martin’s eyes 
had given Dixie courage to say that. Would 
he send any one after Gilbert? Would his 
proud heart beg his son to come back? And 
yet God, through his Son, was begging the 
world to come back. The thoughts shot through 
his mind. 

Martin Shields had many thoughts that never 
found their way to his lips. His words were hard 
in coming ; some of them were wrung from him, 
as his confession to his wife this morning, through 
great agony of soul. A year ago he had told the 
minister that he prayed every night for his boys, 
but that his time had passed ; his sins were 
legion, and he was too old to repent. He had 
hurried away that he might not hear the stereo- 
typed reply ; did he not himself know as well as 


104 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


anybody could tell him about the eleventh hour 
and the thief on the cross? When he was a boy 
and a young man, had he not heard the Bible 
read every day? He believed that his heart was 
hardened ; but if it were, why were soft tears so 
near his eyes. Oh how true it is that God pre- 
pares the way before he sends his Messenger ! 

How little Dixie knew that she was a co- 
worker with the Messenger that was almost at 
the door. She was only doing God’s will for the 
hour. The rested face on the pillow and the 
troubled face turned from her urged her on. 
She read again : 

‘‘ ‘ Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable 
gift. 

“‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye 
lands. Serve the Lord with gladness : come be- 
fore his presence with singing. 

“ ‘ Enter into his gates with thanksgiving and 
into his courts with praise : be thankful unto him 
and bless his name. 

“ ‘For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son 
is given : and the government shall be upon his 
shoulder : and his name shall be called Wonder- 
ful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlast- 
ing Father, The Prince of Peace. 

“ ‘He . . . spared not his own Son, but deliv- 
ered him up for us all. Having yet . . . one 
Son, his well-beloved, he sent him. 

“ ‘ Oh, that men would praise the Lord for his 


CHRISTMAS CHEER. 


105 


goodness, and for his wonderful works to the 
children of men. 

‘ Bless the Lord, O my soul : and all that is 
within me, bless his holy name. 

“ ‘ My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my 
spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.’ ” 

‘‘ Give me my glasses ; I’ll read more while 
you are gone,” said Aunt Martin, stretching out 
her hand to take the book. 

No, you will not,” said her husband, de- 
cidedly, rising as he spoke ; I will hurry back 
and read it to you myself” 

“But I thought you had something to do,” 
replied Aunt Martin, in a weak though de- 
lighted voice. 

“That can wait. — Hurry up, Dixie.” 


VI. 

Nomie has her Wish. 

“lyTERIlY Christmas! Merry Christmas!” 

shouted Nomie, bursting into the warm 
room where Miss Abby sat knitting with her 
large Bible open on a chair in front of her. 
‘‘Merry Christmas to you and to Mischief.” 

Mischief arose with slow dignity and rubbed 
her gray sides against Nomie’s dress. The old 
lady opened her arms, and Nomie, all bundled 
up as she was, heartily embraced her. 

“ Merry Christmas !” Dixie shouted. — “Thank 
you. Uncle Martin ; well be all ready at six 
o’clock.” She hurried in from the shed, laden 
with Christmas cheer. 

“ Well, well ! Did I ever ? I knew you would 
come. I’ve been keeping a good fire for you. — 
Mischief, do behave yourself.” 

“And we can stay till dark if it’s convenient,” 
announced Nomie, in her prim, polite way. 

“I’ll try and make it so,” returned the old 
lady, earnestly. “ Draw near the fire, both of 
you. Aren’t you almost frozen? I never re- 
106 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


107 


member such a Christmas Day as this, and I am 
almost eighty years old.’’ 

Frozen !” laughed Dixie. The air is splen- 
did. I wouldn’t like to hang out clothes, but it’s 
just the thing for fun.” 

Nomie looks rosy enough in that new hood. 
I know all your secrets. Schenck cut the dresses 
over here ; he said there was no place at home 
secret enough but his own room, and in that 
the scissors would have burnt his fingers. What 
kind of a day have you had ?” 

“ Splendid !” cried Nomie. 

‘‘ Perfect,” said Dixie, more quietly, thinking 
of that half hour in her aunt’s room. 

‘‘ How pretty you both look !” exclaimed Miss 
Abby as the disrobing proceeded, “ and as com- 
fortable as I want you to be.” 

‘‘You’ll see me next Sunday,” said Nomie. 
“I wonder if I can get Children of the Marne 
now? I’ve been trying so long!” 

As soon as Nomie could cease her dancing and 
skipping around she seized Mischief, and, cud- 
dling him in her arms, found a place for herself 
in the soft depths of a chair cushioned with 
home-made work. It had been Sallie’s chair, 
and Abby loved to see the child in it. Nomie 
settled herself to listen ; if possible, she loved 
talk more than books. “Do talk to me,” was 
one of her daily coaxings. 

“ Any news ?” questioned Miss Abby as soon 


108 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


as the good things were shut up in the small 
pantry and Dixie and her mending were fairly 
established in front of her. A part of the old 
lady’s pleasure in Dixie consisted in watching 
the changes in her countenance while she lis- 
tened or talked. 

Dixie’s face was not bright unless she were 
listening or talking ; nothing made her eyes so 
dull as being absorbed in her own thoughts : her 
face seemed to become vacant. A stranger, stop- 
ping at the door on an errand, one summer 
day while she sat sewing in the hall, remarked 
to the lady in the carriage as they drove away 
that the girl sewing in there was rather pretty, 
or would be if she had any expression. There 
was no lack of expression to-day as she gave Miss 
Abby a detailed account of this most wonderful 
Christmas Day. 

The two windows in Miss Abby’s room were 
very small ; their high sills were over Nomie’s 
head as she sat near one of them. The prospect 
from the windows would have been dreary to 
other eyes than those of Miss Abby, but to her 
it was endeared by the associations of fifty years. 

The house stood near the road; the girls’ ap- 
proach to it had been in the rear, across the fields. 
The stage-sleigh with its merry jingle passed 
twice daily — early in the morning and at half- 
past four in the afternoon. The bells were a 
great deal of company to Miss Abby ; for that 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


109 


reason she liked a cold winter. Two years ago 
Martin Shields had ploughed at some time during 
each winter month, and Dixie and Nomie remem- 
bered how green the grass on the ice-house bank 
was that day in February that Gilbert dug the 
parsnips. 

‘‘I knew you would come if you could; 
Schenck said he would manage it somehow. 
You don’t remember how you cried over here 
last Christmas Day because Nomie could not go 
somewhere and have a good time and there was 
nowhere to go.” 

‘‘No; I have forgotten every disagreeable thing 
that ever happened. I wanted to bring you 
mother’s Daily Light on the Daily Path, but 
Aunt Martin couldn’t spare it. I wanted to 
show you some things she had written. Oh, I 
do wish I could buy Aunt Martin a copy of it, 
so that Nomie and I could have ours.” 

“Can’t I help you with your mending?” 

“ Oh no, thank you ; it’s only the family stock- 
ings. I’d darn Mr. Savage’s with threads of gold 
if I only could.” 

“ Dixie, I’m going to make a wish,” interrupted 
Nomie. 

“ There’s no harm in wishing if it doesn’t make 
you discontented,” continued wise Miss Abby. 

“ This is only for fun ; I know it won’t come 
true. I wish that somebody nice — somebody 
nicer than anybody we know — would stop in the 


110 


DAVID STRONO^S ERRAND. 


stage to-night and take supper with us. I sup- 
pose you will have supper before we go 

‘‘ I certainly shall ; you shall put on the tea- 
kettle at four and have our feast spread by the 
time we hear the stage. I don’t know that I 
ought to encourage you in such vain wishes, 
though.” 

^‘She will not he disappointed,” said Dixie; 
“ she never is.” 

‘‘ Of course I will not he ; I don’t expect it. I 
wish such things at home — Dixie lets me — and 
they never come true. I did wish once that 
somebody would come, and a tramp came, and 
another time a peddler ; but I’m not wishing for 
a tramp or a peddler this time.” 

‘‘I wouldn’t,” said Dixie; ‘‘we don’t want 
either.” 

“So Forest and Frank are both gone, are 
they?” said Miss Abby, by way of beginning 
her long talk. 

“Yes,” said Dixie; “and if Gilbert didn’t have 
to stay home from school, I should be glad to have 
them both away. I do miss Forest, though; he 
made the evenings pleasant. I missed him as soon 
as he was gone.” 

“Where is Frank now?” 

“ At home, I believe ; he doesn’t expect to find 
a place till April. I am glad to miss him ; he 
made Gilbert discontented. He was always talk- 
ing to Gilbert against Uncle Martin. Gilbert feels 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


111 


enraged now that he must stay from school. He 
does love study — he loves it better than play — 
and he studied evenings and borrowed books 
from the teacher and wrote long essays and cov- 
ered his slate with figures. He has no chance to 
study in summer, only nights and noon-spells. 
The teacher wants him to go to college, and spoke 
to Uncle Martin about it. Uncle Martin is keep- 
ing him home to punish him, I truly believe ; for 
I suppose he could get a man to help him in his 
work. Gilbert said this morning that he would 
rather run away than cut ice, and Uncle Martin 
wants to help fill Mr. Johnson’s ice-house soon. 
Jesse and Joe will never care to go to college. I 
wish Uncle Martin could understand how Gilbert 
wants to go. The teacher says he could teach a 
country school now, and wants him to apply for 
one next winter. I don’t wonder he feels bound 
hand and foot. But if he had only behaved, and 
had not listened to Frank, Uncle Martin would 
not have had to be so stern with him. He didn’t 
use to be bad before Frank came.” 

Poor boy !” sighed Miss Abby. How hoys 
do have to learn obedience ! I haven’t forgotten 
my four brothers.” 

‘M’m glad Nomie isn’t a hoy,” said Dixie, 
energetically ; she would certainly want to go 
to college, and I should have to earn money to 
send her. I wish I could earn money to send 
Gilbert.” 


112 


DAVID STRONG’S EBBAND. 


‘‘ Let him earn it himself ; he’s a boy, and you 
are a girl.” 

I’m afraid I sha’n’t help him much. I don’t 
help anybody — much.” 

Nomie, open that pantry door ; I want Dixie 
to see all my feast. I have crullers, and a roast 
chicken, and two pumpkin-pies, and a mince- 
pie, and cans of fruit, and a pan of the most 
delicious biscuit. Tell me that I haven’t good 
neighbors ! And all you brought to-day besides. 
And it was just the same at Thanksgiving. You 
know you ‘killed’ then, and Martin sent me 
sausage and a spare-rib. I have written to 
Caleb that I cannot give up my home; he 
shall not come after me this winter. I’m too 
old a tree to be torn up by the roots and trans- 
planted. He has a good wife, and doesn’t need 
me; and I have good friends, and don’t par- 
ticularly need him. I like it here better. 
His wife may he kind-hearted enough, hut I’d 
rather keep at a safe distance. I have my queer 
ways, and she isn’t human if she hasn’t hers. I 
have a queer way of finishing my meals near the 
stove. Folks who live alone do get set in their 
ways. I always take my second cup of tea with 
my feet in the stove oven ; and when Caleb was 
here in the fall, he saw me do it, of course, and 
he said I’d have to give that up when I went 
home with him: Louisa wouldn’t like it. He 
said she wouldn’t put up with it ; so I thought 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


113 


I’d better stay with somebody that could. We 
can mostly put up with ourselves better than 
folks can with us. The house is mine, and the 
land, since Sallie died ; and with what he sends 
me and what I earn by knitting and mending, 
and with what the neighbors send in, I’m far 
from being in a suffering condition, as you see. 
I think I’ll keep my head under my own roof as 
long as the roof stays on.” 

Dixie had heard all this, with variations, be- 
fore. All the stories she listened to were so old 
that she was glad of the variations. 

But Nomie was a new story continually. Dixie 
thought she was like the Bible children : ^‘And 
the child grew.” How often the Bible children 
are spoken of as growing ! 

You see I have had my bed brought in here; 
I didn’t want to do it. That rug before the bed 
I had on one side ten years, and now I’ve turned 
it on this side. Mother made it, and I kept it 
ten years before I used it at all. I’ve no place 
for moth and dust to corrupt and thieves to 
break through and steal, as Sylvie has. Forest 
and Schenck brought the bed in, and I’m as 
snug as I can be. No fear of frost or fire or 
flood. It is rather near the stove, but that’s 
all the better: I can take care of the fire in 
the night. The fire is company, and the clock 
is company — too much sometimes; for after 
Caleb wrote me that I must not stay here 


114 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


alone, for two days and two nights that clock 
kept saying as loud, ^Take a trip and take a 
trunk ! Take a trip and take a trunk V until 
I could stand it no longer, and I got up in 
the night and stopped it/’ 

That was too funny !” said Nomie. ‘‘ Did it 
begin again when you started it ?” 

No ; I had written to Caleb by that time, so 
it was of no use. I believe I am better off by 
myself here alone than Sam and Sophie are. 
He is blind, and she is deaf; and they are 
alone together. They are old, too — ’most as 
old as I am. He says, ‘Speak louder: she’s 
as deaf as a post;’ and she says, ‘Sit down 
close to him : he’s as blind as a bat.’ ” 

“I like to go there,” said Nomie; “they always 
make me laugh. They are very funny.” 

“ Oh yes ; one would miss the other. But one 
will have to go first — as Sallie did. Still, I’m 
the thankfulest old woman alive. The minister 
called yesterday, and — Oh yes ! he brought 
me something, too. His wife sent some orange 
marmalade and a loaf of bread. And he asked 
me how I felt staying here alone, and I told him 
I felt watched. The angel of the Lord encamp- 
eth round about them that fear him, and I don’t 
want any better guard than that. But I do miss 
Sallie; we had put our heads together on the 
same pillow for over sixty-five years, and had 
become almost like the Siamese twins. But it’s 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


115 


all right ; I don’t murmur. I wouldn’t for any- 
thing, when the Lord is so ahoundingly good to 
me. And it would have been cold this winter 
for Sallie, and she always looked on the dark 
side; and she can’t up in heaven, for it’s all 
the bright side there. She couldn’t find all the 
comfort that I do in the Bible — everybody can’t ; 
but she was a true believer, and would listen, 
when I read it to her, with tears of joy in her 
eyes. Now I trust she’s finding comfort in the 
presence of the Lord.” 

‘‘I wonder if they keep Christmas in heaven?” 
said Nomie, seriously. I hope they do.” 

‘‘ It’s Christmas gladness all the time,” returned 
Miss Abby. I must tell you what I was find- 
ing when you came in. It struck me so ! I’ve 
found several new things to-day ; they are my 
Christmas present from the Lord. This is one. 
Just think of it ! ‘And it was now dark, and 
Jesus was not come to them.’ Of course it was 
dark before Jesus came to them. And another 
time — ‘when they were afraid — he talked with 
them.’ Just imagine that! Just imagine me 
being alone here and afraid, and Jesus know- 
ing it and talking with me. How can I be 
alone one single minute? I’m going over to 
tell Sylvie all about it, for she lies there; and 
it’s dark, and she’s afraid. I won’t tell you any 
more this time, for I want your hearts to get full 
of this. What big holes you do have to mend, 


116 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


to be sure/’ she said, bending forward to look at 
Dixie’s work. ''All those boys to mend for! 
You have to be a stepmother to them yourself. 
Do you know it has got whispered abroad — as 
things will get out — that 'Shields’ isn’t Martin 
Shields’s right name ? They do say that a man 
came to New York and told somebody, and it 
has got around out here in the country. I’ve 
been afraid that Sylvie snapped him up too 
quick ; he was handsome, and he kind of urged 
her, and she thought he was grander than our 
folks.” 

"What is his name, then?” asked Nomie, 
opening her eyes wide. 

"The man didn’t tell that. But don’t you 
say anything to him about it ; he mightn’t like 
it, and likely as not it isn’t so.” 

Dixie had turned pale. It might be true ; he 
might be hiding, under another name. 

" What do you know, Dix ?” inquired Nomie. 

" I do not know anything to talk about.” 

"What a queer name 'Dix’ is!” Miss Abby 
hastened to observe. " Do you like it, Dixie ?” 

" Yes, because it means me. Nomie is the only 
one who calls me ' Dix,’ though. Haven’t I told 
you about it? My mother was named 'Buth 
Dix,’ and father named me after her ; and then 
he didn’t want to say ' Little Ruth ’ and ' Big 
Ruth,’ so he began to call me 'Dixie’ for fun, and 
mother liked it.” 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


117 


“ It means you, sure enough, just as ‘ Komie ’ 
means Naomi. But ‘Naomi’ is too pretty to 
spoil by ‘Nomie-ing’ it.” 

The old lady sat back in her chair and watched 
the two girls as they laughed and talked. How 
merry they were this Christmas Hay ! Dixie 
kept saying such funny things, and Nomie kept 
saying such wise things. Between them both 
Miss Abby laughed until she had to take off her 
glasses and wipe her eyes. They were much 
better company than the fire and the clock. 

Nomie was slow and steady like the clock, 
while Dixie was as heart-warming as the fire. 
The sisters were alike, or would have been had 
Nomie’s little pinched face been round and rosy; 
Nomie’s hair was a summer brown, and her eyes 
were not quite so blue as those of Dixie. Nomie’s 
eyes were thoughtful, and Dixie’s, unless she 
was absorbed in her own thoughts, were mis- 
chievous. 

“ Nomie is wise and Dixie is superficial,” their 
uncle had said. 

But one or two others knew Dixie more thor- 
oughly. Martin Shields prided himself upon 
his knowledge of human nature — ^he was sure he- 
understood Gilbert — but the human heart and 
human lives were mysteries far beyond his ken. 
He understood his wife so little that he misjudged 
her every day. 

“ Miss Abby, am I like my mother ?” asked 


118 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Dixie as Nomie began to prowl around after a 
book. 

“ No ; you are like your father. He was a 
great big, splendid-looking man. Your mother 
was small and quiet ; she used pretty words when 
she talked, and she moved around like a bird. 
Naomi is more like her. She had a cousin, an- 
other Ruth — Ruth Meredith. They used to 
come together to see me in this very room. Ruth 
Meredith gave me that blue vase on the mantel- 
piece. Ruth Meredith lived at your house until 
she married Martin Strong, a rich man old enough 
to be her father twice over, but they said he was 
loving and lovely, and I didn’t blame Ruth Mere- 
dith for going away with him. There’s nothing 
like love to draw folks, even if I — an old maid 
eighty years old — do say it.” 

‘‘ Mother had a lovely picture of her ; I sup- 
pose it is in the album we have packed away. — I 
must get our treasures out, Nomie, and fix our 
room up again. I put them all away because I 
hadn’t time to keep the room nice. When we 
have our fire night and morning, we are going to 
keep our room ever so nice.” 

That’s one of our wishes,” said Nomie, who 
had found nothing to read but a dull-looking 
volume of bound magazines. There were no 
illustrations, and paper and type were very poor. 
They had been bound years before Dixie was 
born. They were Southern magazines, however, 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


119 


and Nomie found delight in anything that came 
even so near as that to her oranges and sea-bath- 
ing- 

‘‘ISTomie, suppose you put on the tea-kettle 
now/’ suggested Miss Abby, “ and I’ll tell you 
what you may get out for supper.” 

“ I want a little of everything,” said Nomie — 
a little of everything there is in the house.” 

One kind of fruit will he enough.” 

“ Oh yes, with jelly ; and two or three of Aunt 
Martin’s white grapes — ijust one apiece. But we 
want cold chicken and biscuits and pie and crul- 
lers. — We sha’n’t eat them all up. Miss Abby; I 
only want the table to look like a feast. Circas- 
sia is the most hospitable country in the whole 
world, and I want to be like Circassia, if anybody 
should come. Don’t you ever have anybody come 
to supper ?” 

Oh yes, often and often.” 

think she has somebody to-night,” said 

Dixie. 

The room was small and crowded and there 
was not very much space between the table and 
the stove, but Nomie was little and could squeeze 
herself through small spaces ; it made all the 
more fun. How pretty the table looked, with 
its old-fashioned ware, crowded with good things ! 
Miss Abby herself must make the tea, but she 
permitted Nomie to do all the rest. 

Nomie, Nomie !” expostulated Dixie ; “ what 


120 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


haven’t you put on the table? Two kinds of 
pies and three kinds of cake !” 

It is a feast — a Christmas feast — and Miss 
Abby doesn’t care. — Do you, Miss Abby ?” 

“ I don’t care about anything so long as you 
are happy, child,” said Miss Abby, in a con- 
tented, purring way, like her kitten. 

“ It’s nothing to what they had when Edward 
I. was crowned,” continued Nomie. 

‘‘ Is this a coronation ?” asked Dixie. 

‘‘ No ; it’s something better : it’s Christmas. 
They had four hundred oxen, four hundred 
sheep, four hundred and fifty pigs, eighteen 
wild boars, three hundred flitches of bacon 
and twenty thousand fowls. What do you think 
of that?” she inquired, triumphantly. 

‘‘I think they had more than three people 
to eat it.” 

‘‘There’s the stage,” exclaimed Miss Abby, 
going to the window with the brown tea-pot in 
her hand, “and it’s stopping! Dixie, there’s 
somebody getting out, I do declare! I wonder 
who it can be ?” 

Nomie pushed herself in between the tea-pot 
and the window. 

“And it’s a young man with a valise. But 
perhaps he isn’t coming here; perhaps he’s 
going across the fields to see Sam and Sophie.” 

“A long-lost son come back,” said Dixie. 

“No; he’s opening our gate,” cried Nomie, 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


121 


gleefully; ‘^and I am going to usher him in, 
because I wished for him.” 

Nomie had left the door ajar, and Miss Abby 
and Dixie listened for the first sound of the 
stranger’s voice. 

Can you direct me across the fields to the 
house of Martin Shields ? The stage-driver told 
me there was a short cut across.” 

Nomie looked disappointed : he was not her 
guest, after all. Her wishes never did come true. 
Then she flashed out with — 

But come in and get warm first.” 

The young man looked down at her and 
smiled : 

‘‘ What a personation of Hospitality you are ! 
I am very cold, and I certainly would like to 
come in.” 

‘‘Do, please,” urged Nomie, throwing wide 
open the door and revealing Miss Abby and 
Dixie and the crowded supper-table. 

A thin, shrunken, curious face, a pair of bent 
shoulders wrapped in a little black shawl, two 
bony hands upheld in surprise or greeting, the 
stranger could not decide which, and behind 
these a tall, plump figure with the roundest, 
rosiest, sweetest face, the background the crowd- 
ed room, the bedstead, the tall clock, the square 
supper-table, the kettle singing on the stove, — 
what a picture it was, and what a greeting! 

“ You are very welcome,” said the old lady, in 


122 


DAVID STRONG’S EEBAND. 


an ejaculatory tone, a bony hand outheld in salu- 
tation. Have yon had a long ride ?’’ 

‘‘ It has seemed long to me. Below zero is an 
experience new to me ; I never was so cold before 
in my life. You may guess how I appreciate 
your welcome.’’ 

When his mufflers were removed, he presented 
an excellent figure and a fine, frank face. He 
insisted upon not taking off his overcoat, and he 
would not sit near the fire ; had there been space 
between the table and the bed, or between the 
table and anything, he would have preferred to 
keep moving. His voice was as clear as the 
frosty air, and his words were as clear-cut as 
the icicles. His laugh was exhilaration itself. 
Certainly, Nomie had her wish : she had never 
seen any one like him before. 

‘H am not accustomed to your stinging climate,” 
he apologized, rubbing his hands together ; I 
almost wonder why any one should inhabit this 
frozen region. I wonder how near the north 
pole you are?” 

Nearer than we ever were before,” returned 
Dixie, to whom he had seemed to appeal ; we 
have been eighteen below zero, but that was be- 
fore dawn, and I think it did not last very long.” 

Will it happen ever again ?” he asked, com- 
ically. 

‘‘Will it make you want to go home?” in- 
quired Nomie, seriously. 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


123 


‘‘ If anything could, I think that would.” 

“ Dixie, make a cup of coffee,” said Miss Abhy, 
in a brisk voice ; that will warm him better than 
anything.” 

“ ‘ Dixie ’ !” he repeated. Is your name 
‘Dixie’?” 

“Yes, sir,” she answered, coloring with sur- 
prise. 

“ Did you think it wasn’t ?” asked Nomie. 

“ I did not think it was, but I am glad it is. I 
never heard it but once before. It is an unusual 
name.” 

“ So is mine,” said Naomi, proudly. 

“Yours might be ‘Tricksy,’ I think,” he said, 
smiling. 

“ It is ‘ Naomi,’ and Dixie is ‘ Kuth.’ ” 

She was like Ruth, he thought — so innocent 
and fair and unsophisticated ; she must be loving 
and obedient, also. 

“ Our supper is ready,” said the hostess, court- 
eously ; “we shall be glad to have you eat with 
us.” 

“ Supper-time is early in your country. Thank 
you. I was so cold that I did not care for din- 
ner ; now I am hungry as well as cold.” 

“ You may be glad that you are not in Ne- 
braska,” continued Miss Abby ; “ some one told 
me that it has been forty-eight degrees below 
zero there this very winter.” 

“ I suspect I should have been inclined to turn 


124 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


back had I started for Nebraska/’ he answered, 
almost gravely. 

‘^Aren’t you inclined now ?” asked Nomie. 

Not yet. How can I be, meeting with such 
a welcome as this ?” 

‘^Please take my seat/’ said Nomie, utterly 
won by his voice and manner, and I’ll wait on 
the table.” 

I cannot allow you to do that.” 

Oh, but I must ; it is my feast.” 

It is certainly a feast,” he said, glancing at 
the mince-pie and the huge pumpkin-pie. ‘‘ It 
reminds me of New England, and you are not in 
New England.” 

‘^She was making a coronation feast,” Miss 
Abby hastened to explain, and all she wanted 
was the prince.” 

He felt inclined to say that there was no need, 
with such a Saxon princess at hand; instead, he 
replied that nothing would please him better than 
to become the prince. 

They drew their chairs to the table, Nomie 
standing at Miss Abby’s side. Miss Abby bowed 
her head, as usual, in silent prayer. Ought she 
to have invited the stranger to ask a blessing” ? 
He bent his head with the others, lifting it more 
slowly, as though his silent prayer were still un- 
finished. 

My name is ‘ David Meredith,’ ” he said ; 
‘‘excuse me for not introducing myself before. 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH 


125 


Last night I was entertained about four miles 
from here, and I heard that Mr. Shields wanted 
a man ; so I came as an applicant for the situa- 
tion.’' 

‘‘ Oh, I’m glad !” exclaimed Nomie, passing 
him the plate of biscuits. 

‘‘Where did you stay?” asked Miss Abby. 

“At a place they call ‘Four Corners.’ Mr. 
Luce was my host.” 

“Did you see Frank?” asked Dixie, quickly. 

“ Yes ; I saw Frank.” His tone was so grave 
that Miss Abby dropped her knife and fork and 
looked hard at him. “ I saw Frank, and I learned 
that he is bent on an evil errand of some kind and 
that Gilbert Shields is involved in it. They put 
me in Frank’s room, and the boy would have 
talked to me all night had I not silenced him. 
I could scarcely keep my hands from giving him 
a good threshing; he was crowing and chuckling 
over something that I could not understand, and 
it seemed to be that he had Gilbert in his power. 
I learned that Gilbert would be there this morn- 
ing, and I waited to see him.” 

“ Oh, have you come with bad news to Uncle 
Martin ?” cried Dixie. “ Oh, how will he bear 
it?” 

“ I know nothing certain about Gilbert, except 
that he is in the power of this rascally boy. Frank 
will stop short at nothing. I tried to persuade 
Gilbert not to go with him to-day — Frank said 


126 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND. 


they were going off on a ‘ spree ’ — ^but I was a 
stranger, and he would not listen to me.” 

Did you plead with him ?” asked Miss Abhy. 

I urged every motive. I put my arm around 
him and held him, and he shook me off and 
asked me what he was to me, that I should 
care whether he went to destruction or not. 
Then he said that it was too late — that he 
never could go hack home. They were not to 
start together ; he was to follow Frank, and I 
went with him a mile toward the station. I 
would not have let him go, but he jumped into 
a sleigh as some one passed that he knew, and I 
lost him.” 

Why didn’t you make the man take you ?” 
asked Nomie, excitedly pulling his arm. 

Hush, dear !” said Dixie. 

“ I could not expose Gilbert : I have no idea 
of what he has done or intends to do, nor had I 
any authority over him; but I do believe that he 
has left home.” 

‘‘ Can’t you help Uncle Martin to find him ?” 
urged Nomie. 

Dixie placed the cup of coffee in his hand. 
He drank it in silence. 

It was a providence that you happened to go 
to Frank’s house,” said Miss Abhy, devoutly. 

am sure it was. I was directed there ; they 
said Mr. Luce took in wayfarers. When I ques- 
tioned Frank, he was mute; he would reveal 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


127 


only what pleased him. He gave me a history 
of his seven months at Mr. Shields’s.” 

He didn’t like Uncle Martin,” said Nomie, 
‘‘but people — You don’t eat my feast.” 

“ I will,” said David Meredith. “ Please pass 
me the chicken.” 

“ I suppose nothing can be done now,” said 
Dixie — “ to-night.” 

“ Gilbert may have repented, and we may find 
him at home. He burst into tears while I talked 
with him, and cried like a baby. He is a warm- 
hearted, impressible fellow.” 

“ Do you like boys so ?” inquired Nomie. 

“ Yes, just so. I am only a big boy myself.” 

“ I can’t help thinking” — Miss Abby spoke 
solemnly — “that it was a providence that you 
met him.” 

“ I don’t want to help thinking so,” said David. 

“Was your father born around this country 
anywhere ?” 

“No.” 

“ Meredith is one of our names. Dixie’s 
mother had a cousin Ruth Meredith, and your 
eyes made me think of her. And I hadn’t seen 
her since she was a young girl — years before she 
married Martin Strong. Where was your father 
from?” 

“New Hampshire.” His replies were brief, 
but the tone was courteous. 

“ Then he can’t be one of our Merediths,” she 


128 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


rejoined, in a satisfied tone. ‘‘ I almost wished 
he had been, for you do have a look in your eyes 
like Euth. I haven't introduced myself to you, 
sir. My name is ‘Abby Wayne.' — Nomie, it is 
dark enough for a light ; we can hardly see one 
another's features. — Mr. Meredith, you don't look 
like a man compelled to hire out." 

I am. I am compelled to hire out this win- 
ter ; and I am interested in what I have heard 
of Martin Shields and his family, and I want to 
work for him." 

“ I didn't think Frank would make it out an 
alluring home," said Dixie." 

He did — ^to me." 

The stranger had unbuttoned his overcoat ; his 
clothing was well fitting, but coarse. It seemed 
very coarse to him. To Dixie he appeared re- 
markably well dressed. 

‘‘Suppose he will not take you?" ventured 
Miss Abby. 

“ He will certainly keep me over-night, then, 
will he not?" he asked. 

“ He is kind to strangers," said Nomie. “ He 
often takes people in all night, but he puts them 
in the barn." 

“ I confess that I have no liking for the barn." 

“ But it is in warm weather that he does that. 
Don't you think he will let him have Frank's 
room, Dixie?" 

“ I hope not; Frank's is not good enough." 


NOMIE H.iS HER WISH. 


129 


‘‘ Forest's, then 

‘‘ We will see." 

Miss Abby kept them all in conversation for 
the next hour ; her stories of old times were very 
amusing. They all listened and laughed. 

Dixie and Nomie, meanwhile, put away the 
remnant of the feast and washed the dishes. 
These girls were a surprising discovery in this 
wilderness of snow ; quaint little Nomie, in her 
fashion, was as attractive as the elder sister with 
her serious eyes and quick replies. They cer- 
tainly were interested in Martin Shields. 

David arose and put on his gloves. 

“Wait for us, Mr. Meredith," cried Nomie; 
“Uncle Martin is coming for us." 

“ I feel in a hurry. Don't you suppose a way- 
farer is anxious to know what kind of a barn he 
is to sleep in when the thermometer stands below 
zero ?" 

“ But you won't sleep in a barn," she said, de- 
cidedly. 

“No; I do not think I shall. Miss Abby 
would give me a bed before she would let me 
do that." 

Miss Abby hesitated. She was all alone ; 
could she take in this stranger? 

“But I shall not tax your kindness; some- 
body will take me in for love or money." 

“I would take you, but I don't know you." 

“You will know me some time. If Mr. 


130 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Shields does not take me in, some one else 
will.’’ 

‘‘You don’t look as though you understood 
work,” said Miss Abby. 

He drew off his glove and looked at his 
hand. Dixie looked at his, and then at her 
own. She had noticed his hands. 

“ I have been busy all summer, studying and 
reading. I was not born a farmer’s boy, to tell 
you the truth, and I have never learned a trade. 
Still, I can support myself with my hands, as 
you shall see.” 

“ I don’t believe you have run away,” said the 
old lady, looking affectionately into his face. 

“ No ; I did not run away. But I must go ; 
your cozy fireside has detained me too long.” 

Nomie followed him out into the shed, opened 
the rear door, and in the twilight pointed out the 
way. 

“ It is hard walking,” she said. “ Perhaps you 
will find Uncle Martin starting for us.” 

“ ‘A simple fireside thing,’ ” he quoted, think- 
ing of Dixie, as he trod over the hard snow. “I 
certainly have been sent, and have come, in the 
best time. I touched that Gilbert when I talked 
to him about his father. — Oh, father, father ! how 
you will love that boy !” 

Was there a lingering regret that he was 
working to bring others into his own place? 
No other could come into his place ; no other 


NOMIE HAS HER WISH. 


131 


could love his father as he loved him ; and the 
loving is the having. He had never loved his 
father in his life as he loved him at that instant 
while he walked briskly over the snow toward the 
light in his brother’s kitchen. He had thought 
of him only as his father’s son ; soon he would 
stand face to face with his brother. 

As he neared the barn, a sound reached him ; 
he stood still, listening with every nerve. It 
was a sob, a moan, bursting into a groan: 

. “ Oh, Gilbert, my son, my son !” 


VIL 

Gilbert. 

IVr OW, Miss Abby, do tell us all about when 
you were a little girl/’ coaxed Nomie, seat- 
ing herself on the carpet near Miss Abby’s chair 
with Mischief in her lap. 

‘‘Not yet; I want to talk more about that 
young man. Dixie, there’s some mystery about 
it.” 

“ It’s a good mystery, then,” said Nomie, 
quickly, “for he has a beautiful face.” 

“Do you know whom he reminds me of?” 
asked Miss Abby. “The young man whom 
Jesus loved when he looked at him. I loved 
him as soon as I looked into his eyes. And 
yet — and yet — It looks strange about him. I 
can’t understand.” 

At this moment Mr. Savage was hurrying 
breathlessly through the shed. He tapped at 
the inner door. In his lowliness of heart and 
his fear of intrusion he would have knocked at 
his own chamber door could he have been within 
to open to himself. 

“Another Somebody,” cried Nomie, “and I 

132 


GILBERT. 


133 


didn’t wish for two.” With Mischief in her 
arms, she opened the door to exclaim, Oh, Mr. 
Savage ! it’s only you.” 

Well, don’t you want to go home ?” he asked, 
feigning cheeriness. 

‘‘ Mr. Savage, what’s the matter ?” 

Dixie stood at his side, ready to shake him 
into speaking. 

“ Oh, it’s awful — perfectly awful,” he answered, 
in a thick voice. Groaning and wiping his eyes, 
he sank into a chair near the door. He always 
sat near the door. 

“ Is it Aunt Martin ?” cried Dixie, seizing him 
by the shoulder. 

‘‘Don’t be so frightened; it might be worse. 
The doctor came — ” 

“ Is Uncle Martin hurt ?” Dixie trembled in 
every fibre in the agony of her suspense. 

“The doctor came, and Martin went to the 
drawer, and — ^the money — wasn’t there.” 

“ Oh ! is that all ? How could you frighten 
me so?” cried Dixie, angrily. 

“ But Gilbert has taken it and run away,” he 
added, in his most impressive tone. Schenck 
Savage was not above enjoying the making a 
sensation. 

“Has he stolen it?” inquired Homie, in a fright- 
ened whisper. 

“ He and Frank, and they’ve run away. Cousin 
Sylvie found a note under her pillow, and nobody 


134 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


knows how it got there ; it said his father would 
give him no liberty and he had gone off to find 
it. He was sorry to take the money from her, 
hut he couldn’t get it anywhere else. He would 
send it all hack.” 

Miss Abby was moaning and weeping, clasping 
and unclasping her hands. 

‘‘Martin says it is all Frank. And a young 
man came to hire, and he knew about Frank ; 
and he saw Gilbert this morning. He told us 
all about it. They have run off together. I’m 
sure Frank will get all the money away.” 

“ Gilbert never would have done it by himself. 
And to take it from her, too ! She has been such 
a good friend to him !” said Dixie, indignantly. 

“She has had a fit, or something; the doctor has 
just gone. He said he would come again in the 
morning. She wants you ; she wants you right 
away. I’ve tried to break it easy to you. The 
young man hitched up, and I came for you.” 

“We thought you were going to let us stay all 
night, and Dixie said she would walk back if 
you didn’t come by ten o’clock. It’s nine now,” 
said Nomie. 

“ How are the boys ?” asked Dixie. 

“ Crying out in the kitchen. Martin did not 
speak one word, but he cried so hard that the 
tears fell through his fingers and dropped down 
on the fioor.” 

“Nomie.” Dixie was pinning her shawl. “You 


GILBERT. 


135 


may stay with Miss Abby. I shall have to stay 
all night with Aunt Martin, and you’ll he cold 
up stairs all alone.” 

‘‘But I want to go with you.” 

“ No, dear, you don’t,” said Miss Abhy ; “ you 
don’t want to leave me to stay awake all night 
alone. I want you to speak to in the night if I 
can’t sleep.” 

“ I’ll send Mr. Savage for you as soon as you 
may come,” decided Dixie. 

“ Well,” said Nomie, obediently, in a tearful 
voice. But she did want to go home to see 
how everything was when dreadful things were 
happening. Nothing had ever happened when 
she was there. She kissed Dixie, trying to be 
brave and not to manifest her disappointment, 
bolted the shed door after them, and went back 
to talk and listen until Miss Abby said it was 
time to read her “chapter” and go to bed. 

Dixie stepped off the sleigh and ran into the 
house. Mr. Meredith came out to take the 
horses. In the kitchen she found the boys hud- 
dled together speaking in whispers; the candle 
on the dining-room table was burning low. Aunt 
Martin’s groans reached her as she stood in the 
dining-room dreading to stir another step. 

“ Here she is,” exclaimed Uncle Martin, in a 
tone of great relief, as Dixie softly opened the 
door. He stood over his wife rubbing her hands 
between his own. “ Now Dixie will fix you up. 


136 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and you will have a good night. — Is Schenck 
taking out the horses?’’ 

‘^No; Mr. Meredith came out. — Aunt Martin, 
have you had your valerian?” She threw off 
her shawl and hat, avoiding Martin’s eyes. 

The doctor left something to be given every 
two hours ; I gave it to her one hour ago. On 
this end of the mantelpiece, in the glass,” he 
said, slipping out as soon as Dixie came to the 
bedside. 

‘‘Oh dear, dear !” groaned Aunt Martin; “this 
trouble will kill us all. And how ever am I to 
pay the doctor ? And everybody will know it, 
and talk about it. If the Doctor had only come 
before, it wouldn’t have happened; he said he 
knew it was safe, and he was in no hurry. But 
it wasn’t safe. And I didn’t think when Gilbert 
counted it over for me. Where do you suppose 
he is this cold night? Mr. Shields says Frank 
will spend it all — ^that he entrapped Gilbert into 
it. He doesn’t know where to go after Gilbert. 
Some of the time he is angry, and some of the 
time he cries ; some of the time he says the hoy 
shall never darken his doors again, and some of 
the time he jumps up to go after him. He says 
he is glad his father didn’t live to see this day. 
And his own name isn’t ‘ Shields ’ at all : it is 
‘Strong;’ and my name isn’t ‘Shields:’ it is 
‘Strong.’ But nobody must know about it. It 
is disgrace and shame everywhere all around. 


GILBERT. 


137 


and people will know it and say this is what 
I got by marrying a stranger that I had never 
heard of. If it doesn’t kill me — and I know it 
will — I’m going to sell the farm and move away 
where nobody knows us, and where Mr. Shields 
can take his own name again. I feel dreadful 
not to have my own husband’s own name; I feel 
as if I couldn’t look the world in the face. And 
Gilbert was such a bright little fellow, and I was 
so proud when he called me ‘mother’ the first 
time; and now he has grown up to rob me. It 
is well Frank didn’t tell him to kill me; the 
papers are full of such dreadful things. And 
there’s a strange man out there, come to hire, 
and he may rob us to-night or burn the house 
down, and he’s got to sleep in the barn. I told 
Mr. Shields so, and he said he would put him up 
garret in Frank’s room.” 

“ But, Aunt Martin, that’s so cold ; he might 
as well be in the barn as up there. There are 
two panes broken, and no carpet ; and the bed 
isn’t nice. I didn’t fix it up, because Uncle 
Martin said he would not have a man this win- 
ter : Gilbert should stay home from school.” 

“ That’s another thing. Gilbert wouldn’t have 
taken the money and run away if his father had 
let him go to school. He has been too harsh with 
him. I always told him he was too harsh,” she 
repeated, feebly. 

“ Don’t say it now,” pleaded Dixie ; “ his heart 


138 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


is broken enough. He will let Gilbert go to school 
when he comes back. He will come back, because 
we will pray for it. God loves to have his chil- 
dren come back to him, and he loves to have 
earthly children come back to earthly fathers. 
He will surely come back.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe it ! I don’t believe it ! Or, 
if he does, it will be after we are both dead and 
gone. Don’t you remember John Todd? Did 
he come back before his father died? And didn’t 
his mother faint dead away when he did come ? 
Has Mr. Shields himself gone back to his father? 
Didn’t he find his father gone twenty years after- 
ward, when he did go back? Don’t tell me; 
don’t comfort me that way. I wish I hadn’t 
lived to see this night. It is the first disgrace 
in my family. Don’t stand looking at me ; do 
something for me. I shall have another fit ; I 
am having one now. Oh dear! I’m going to 
scream as loud as I can.” 

‘‘Aunt Martin I” Dixie had never spoken in 
this tone before. “ If you scream or speak, or 
make any noise. I’ll go out and leave you alone. 
I will make you comfortable for the night, and 
you must go to sleep. You shall have your 
medicine again — ” 

“It isn’t two hours,” she answered, in a 
changed voice. 

“No matter ; you may have it again. I know 
what it is, and I know how to use it ; I’ll give 


GILBERT. 


139 


you half a dose this time. You must shut your 
eyes and not speak again, and I’ll rub your hands 
until you are asleep.” 

And then you won’t go away ?” she pleaded, 
childishly. 

‘‘ ^lo ; I’ll sit up all night in this big chair and 
keep the fire up and watch you.” 

Without a word of protest Aunt Martin turned 
her head on her pillow. The tears were rolling 
down her cheek ; she was so old and so tired out 
that if she had not been afraid, she would have 
wished to die in her sleep and never wake to re- 
member that Gilbert was gone, that her husband 
had married her under a false name, and that she 
had no money to pay the doctor. 

After a long while Dixie stole out of the room ; 
there might be something that she ought to do 
for somebody. She found a tall candle burning 
upon the dining-room table, a fire blazing in the 
wood-stove, and Schenck standing helplessly be- 
fore it staring at the top of the stove. The clock 
was on the stroke of midnight. Martin Shields 
had gone up stairs to bed; the boys were fast 
asleep in bed clinging to each other; Schenck 
had lighted the stranger to the room in the gar- 
ret. 

“ I’m keeping up the fire ; he may come back 
and be cold. It’s nine below zero now. I’ll have 
something hot for him. You know we can pray, 
Dixie.” 


140 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Dixie knew that with all her heart. 

David Meredith had gone shivering up the 
narrow stairway ; he had seen such places before 
in his mission work. Setting the flaring tallow 
candle on a wooden box, he had surveyed his 
new dominions. No servant in his father’s house 
had such an uncomfortable sleeping-room as this ; 
he doubted if there were such in the home of 
any man in his father’s employ. The snow had 
drifted through the broken panes, and lay piled 
up on the bare floor near one side of the bed ; the 
pillow-case was soiled, the coarse bedding redo- 
lent of stale tobacco. For some time he stood 
irresolute. He would go down and demand 
better accommodations ; there must be many 
comfortable chambers in that roomy house. But 
they were in trouble; that blue-eyed girl had 
enough to think of to-night. And had he come 
to demand? Had he not come to obey? Was 
he not Martin Shields’s servant? Had he not 
agreed to stay one week and work for his board, 
and then, if he satisfied his employer, to remain 
until spring ? He had slept in Frank’s bed last 
night with Frank beside him. He had written 
to his father that he need not fear for him : he 
would never have to go through anything that 
could be more revolting than that. The draught 
soon extinguished the flickering flame; in the 
cold and darkness he knelt to pray. Never 
before had he drawn so close to his Father in 


GILBERT. 


141 


heaven ; never before bad be felt bow much tbe 
Son on eartb bad loved to pray to tbe Father in 
heaven. With a heart at peace he threw off the 
bed-coverings and crept into bed ; as he settled 
himself a delicious sense of warmth surprised 
him. Schenck had tucked two heated bricks 
into the foot of the bed. 

What a story David had written to his father 
that night! How he would be moved by the 
first words he had heard bursting out of Martinis 
agony ! How his heart would yearn over Mar- 
tin’s son 1 

Martin tossed all night upon his bed, weeping 
tears of bitter remorse and penitence and brokenly 
praying for his son : he did not dare to pray for 
himself. 

Dixie slept in her chair at intervals, leaning 
forward with her head resting upon the bed, 
keeping her aunt’s hand in her warm clasp. 
The fire was kept up, the medicine given once. 
They both slept and grew rested, and morning 
came at last. 

Dixie was awakened by a light touch on her 
shoulder. Schenck stood at her side with a fra- 
grant cup of coffee. 

“Oh, Mr. Savage!” she cried, starting up. 
“You are like an angel.” 

“Oh no; I’m only a Savage,” he chuckled. 
He stood watching her with a satisfied air until 
she drained the cup. “I looked in during the 


142 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


night once or twice, but you seemed to be asleep, 
and Cousin Sylvie was not moving. I put in 
some wood without waking you up. IVe watched 
all night for the hoy to come back.’’ 

“ Is Mr. Meredith down ?” whispered Dixie. 

‘‘Oh, he was down early, before I had the 
kitchen fire made, and asking for the milk- 
pails. It’s a mystery to me that he knows how 
to do things. He is a gentleman born ; any one 
who knows what a gentleman is can tell that. 
He reminds me of that man Cousin Martin had 
to work in the garden ; he said he had been a 
music-teacher. I don’t believe we can keep him 
more than a week : he won’t like the hard work 
and Martin’s sharp ways. I surmise that he has 
got in trouble somehow, and is glad to hide him- 
self ; for what else should he hire himself out in 
a place like this ? There’s some mystery about 
him, depend upon it ; but it’s none of my busi- 
ness.” He went out with the empty cup in his 
hand, repeating, “ But it’s none of my business.” 

At that moment the young man with the mys- 
tery about him was bringing the milk-pails into 
the kitchen. 

“ I suppose I shall have to churn,” he said to 
Martin Shields. 

“You will have to do everything you are 
told,” was the ungracious answer. 

That evening, in the dining-room, with Nomie 
sitting near him writing on her broken slate and 


GILBERT. 


143 


Dixie not far away mending Jesse’s jacket, he 
wrote another long letter to his father. His 
master had been rough and dictatorial, and his 
hired man’s ” method of working had not alto- 
gether suited him : 

‘‘He keeps me busy; he knows how to get the 
best out of a man. His words are few; he does 
not encourage with any praise, and never lets an 
opportunity pass to find fault. What an ill-con- 
ditioned fellow would I have become with such a 
father ! J esse says he never let Gilbert read in 
the daytime. How your heart would ache could 
you see his eyes ! He has not eaten a mouthful 
to-day. He came back from town this morning 
with the report that Frank had bought a ticket 
for New York, that Gilbert had waited two 
hours at the station alone, had purchased no 
ticket, and had then gone off. Gilbert had 
had no money, for a blind man had entered the 
waiting-room and begged him to buy popped 
corn, and he had said to him, ‘ I cannot ; I 
have not a cent in my pocket.’ 

“The ticket-agent is known to Martin; he 
had suspected something wrong with Gilbert. 
Frank had changed a five-dollar bill to buy 
his ticket. 

“Martin says there is nothing further to do — 
that Gilbert may have walked or rode off in any 
direction. He naturally wishes to keep the mat- 
ter quiet. He went to see Frank’s parents, and 


144 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


learned that they know no more than he does. 
He can take no steps for Frank’s arrest, as his 
own son is implicated.” 

‘‘ Mr. Meredith,” said Schenck, with the im- 
portant air of settling difficult affairs, ‘‘ this girl 
has been feeling bad all day because you had to 
sleep in that garret, and she has fixed up a room 
for you ; it’s one of the kitchen chambers, and is 
next to Cousin Sylvie’s store-room. It is warmer 
and the bed is clean, and now she feels better ; 
and I do too.” 

Thank you. Miss Dixie,” said David, lifting 
his bright face. 

“ I couldn’t help it last night,” said Dixie 
I know you couldn’t.” 

‘‘You were real good not to make a fuss about 
it,” said Schenck, “for you don’t look as if you 
were used to garrets.” 

“I am not — very,” he returned, with his boy- 
ish laugh; “and I have to thank some kind 
somebody for two hot bricks.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Schenck, coloring 
with pleasure; “I’m used to thinking of folks.” 
But how he did love to be appreciated ! To be 
loved and to be assured of it was all he hungered 
for; what did he want people to do for him? 
He could pay his own board and sew on his own 
buttons. A kind look from Dixie’s eyes kept 
him happy all day. Alas, Schenck, with all your 
unworldliness, you are very human. “Dixie,” 


GILBERT. 


145 


he whispered, bending over her, ‘‘let me sew 
those buttons on/’ 

Dixie did not like to have him bend over her : 

“ No, thank you ; I haven’t much to do to- 
night.” 

“You have his room to arrange,” in the same 
half-stifled whisper. 

Dixie glanced across the table at David. He 
was taking down the conversation word for word, 
but she knew only that his pen seemed racing 
across the paper. She laid the jacket in Schenck’s 
hand without another word. 

“ Where are the boys?” asked Martin Shields, 
entering the room from the hall. 

“Gone to the post-office,” answered Schenck. 
Answering questions employed a considerable 
part of Schenck’s spare time. 

“They must find some better place than that 
store to spend their evenings; it’s a place for 
boys and hired men to learn to be discontented. 
— I am glad, Meredith, that you can employ 
yourself at home.” 

“ I certainly can, sir,” returned David, respect- 
fully. 

“Dixie, you don’t need two candles here. Two 
candles burning, and no ship at sea !” 

Dixie colored very much as she hesitatingly 
pushed one candlestick nearer David’s page and 
took the other into her hand. 

“ I’m very sorry,” she said, as Martin left the 
10 


146 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


room, but he thinks we must be doubly saving 
now. Miss Abby made these candles, and they 
don’t give very much light, any way.” 

Never mind,” said David; ‘‘we have young 
eyes.” 

With the candlestick in her hand, Dixie went 
up the kitchen stairs. Some things had not 
seemed so hard to her since David Meredith 
came. He took every hardship as a matter of 
course, and made light of it. She found herself 
involuntarily treating him as a guest, and had 
almost felt ashamed of the plain dinner — baked 
beans, warmed over at that, in a huge platter in 
the middle of the table, bread-and-butter and 
weak coffee. There had been no dessert: the 
mince-pies must be saved for Sunday. 

In the morning Martin Shields had said to 
her, 

“That stolen money must come out of our 
flesh and bones. I’ve had to send the doctor 
a check, and it must be saved out of some- 
thing. I’ve ordered an invalid-chair for Sylvie, 
too : the doctor says she must be got out of bed. 
Give us enough to eat, but don’t cook one potato 
or use one spoonful of groceries more than you 
can help. I’ve heard of wheat being burnt for 
coffee ; it makes a pleasant drink, and I’ll bring 
some in to-day and you can try it. If it were 
not for Gilbert, I’d put that boy behind the 
prison-bars.” 


GILBERT. 


147 


Dixie answered cheerfully; she would help 
him bear his burden if she could ; but still, she 
did feel ashamed of baked beans, and nothing 
else, for dinner. And evidently Mr. Meredith 
did not relish baked beans. 


VIII. 

Sekving. 


W ITH the flaring candle in her hand, Dixie 
opened the door of the kitchen chamber 
next to the store-room. The floor was hare, and 
the first thing to do was to drag a breadth of new 
rag carpet from the store-room and lay it down 
in front of the bed. 

Aunt Martin happened to have that breadth 
of carpet in this way : she had bought the balls 
of rags from Abby, and Abby had earned them 
by sewing and cutting rags on shares ” for the 
neighbors ; she had sewed two balls and taken 
one for herself. Abby’s winter store of dried 
fruit she had also earned by doing work on 
shares. Having had more than she cared for 
herself, she had disposed of the dried apples to 
Sylvie. Sylvie was very good to her. 

As Dixie noticed the dried fruit and canned 
fruit in the store-room she wondered if she might 
speak to Aunt Martin about improvement in the 
table-fare. Or would it trouble her ? Her own 
tray was not to be diminished in aught of variety 
or delicacy ; Uncle Martin had mentioned that. 

148 


SEBVING. 


149 


A sigh heaved itself up out of Dixie’s brave 
young heart; must she be ‘^getting along” all 
the time until she went to heaven? It would 
do no good now for Uncle Martin to have found 
that washerwoman ; that part of the saving must 
come out of her flesh and bones. 

‘‘ Oh, Frank,” she said, aloud, ‘‘ what a difier- 
ence your wickedness does make to us all !” 

She spread the carpet and looked at the nar- 
row bedstead ; there was nothing upon it but a 
straw bed, but she knew where to find a luxu- 
rious feather bed. Had she dared, she would 
have given the stranger the spare-room with the 
fire all ready to light upon the hearth, the pretty 
ingrain carpet and the furniture of imitation oak ; 
there were even curtains of Nottingham lace at 
the windows. Aunt Martin had earned the fur- 
niture of this room that summer that she kept 
boarders. Dixie remembered that summer. Mr. 
Meredith looked more fitted to that room than to 
this ; he looked as fitted to sleep in it as the two 
ministers who had occupied it last fall when the 
Presbytery had met in the village church. She 
was glad that he had come, for Nomie’s sake; 
she wanted the child to see some one like their 
father. 

Now the next best thing to be done was to 
make this room as attractive as the spare-room.' 
How impossible that was ! There was no fire- 
place, no mantel, but one window, and only space 


160 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


enough for a small table between the window and 
the bed. 

Schenck had said that this room was warmer 
than the garret; it would have been more appro- 
priate to say less cold.” It was stinging cold 
to-night. 

In half an hour what a contrast the room be- 
came to that desolate garret! — ^the plump bed 
with its gay patchwork quilt, the small old-fash- 
ioned pillows with their fresh white cases, the 
stand beside the bed with a Bible upon it, a fancy 
match-box, and a copy of Thomas a Kempis’s 
Imitation of Christ with Dixie’s mother’s name 
written in it, the one window curtained with half 
of an old red blanket shawl, a chair with a cake 
of soap that Dixie had taken from her own toilet, 
two clean towels with fringe and red borders, a 
shining tin basin, and a brown pitcher with a 
broken nose. Each article in the room told a 
separate story of somebody’s care for the stranger. 

Meredith laughed as he extinguished the flick- 
ering flame of his candle, wondering what the 
country-girl would think of the rooms he had 
left. But even there the bed was not fresher or 
sweeter. How wonderful that he had come — 
.that he had been sent in exactly the right time 
to the very spot ! But in whose hand were his 
‘‘times”? In whose hands were Martin Shields’s 
“times”? All had been in the unhurrying plan 
of God. 


SERVING. 


151 


David was awakened by a heavy step in his 
room: 

‘'Young man, if you work for me, you mustn’t 
wait to be called, and I don’t expect to milk or 
feed the cattle every morning.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” cried David, lifting his 
head ; “I am afraid I am a lazy fellow.” 

“A lazy fellow won’t do for me,” muttered 
Martin Shields as he turned his back. 

David was a “lazy fellow,” and he enjoyed a 
late, luxurious breakfast with his father and the 
reading aloud of the morning papers afterward. 
He wanted a bath this morning, and a stroll 
on the beach, and a long drive in the after- 
noon, and books and music and his father in 
the evening. This winter was his vacation, 
and he had had a right to rest; he was ex- 
pecting brain-work and business enough when 
the winter was over. The water was frozen in 
the broken-nosed pitcher, and the strong odor 
of sausages was being wafted up the kitchen 
stairway. And he disliked sausage almost as 
much as he disliked baked beans. An orange, a 
rare juicy steak, hominy and milk, toast and 
chocolate, comprised the favorite breakfast fare 
at home, and with it such delightful talk ! Yes, 
he was a spoiled boy and inclined to grumble ; 
must he milk three cows and feed the sheep, the 
cows, two oxen and two horses before he could 
have even that breakfast of sausage? 


152 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND, 


How could he expect to suit his master, this 
inexperienced college-boy? If this plan failed, 
what next? Could he not learn enough of 
Martin Shields in one week under his roof? 
But could he reveal his father to him ? Could 
he win him back ? He had telegraphed the 
address to his father as soon as he learned it; 
might he expect a letter to-night ? If the boys 
were not allowed to go to the post-office, he 
might have a walk of two miles himself to- 
night. 

Dixie met him with troubled eyes at the foot 
of the stairs. She was a picture with her flushed 
face, long apron, and knife and fork in her hand : 

I knocked at your door, Mr. Meredith, but I 
could not awaken you.’’ 

Thank you. I am a heavy sleeper.” 

But you won’t do so again ? Nothing makes 
Uncle Martin so angry as late rising. He has 
done the chores himself this morning, and he 
won’t be so patient another time.” 

‘‘Was he ‘so patient’ this morning?” laughed 
David. “To tell you the truth. Miss Dixie, I 
am used to a late breakfast. I usually read or 
study till midnight.” 

“ But you didn’t last night ?” 

“ Oh yes, I did ; I read my long candle out.” 

“ Uncle Martin will not like that, either. I’m 
afraid you don’t know how to ‘ hire out.’ ” 

“I am learning fast enough. I will behave 


SERVING. 


153 


myself better after this. Your old Thomas a 
Kemp is fascinated me last night.’’ 

Dixie still looked doubtful. Uncle Martin 
never could be patient with this self-complacent 
young man. 

David put on his overcoat and hurried out to 
the barn. He found Martin Shields cutting feed 
for the horses. 

You are a day after the fair, young man, and 
to-morrow you may go about your business unless 
you are up before the sun.” 

I beg your pardon,” said David, again, very 
earnestly. I am ashamed of myself.” 

Well, well ! Perhaps it will not happen 
again. Are you sailing under false colors here? 
Is your name David Meredith ?” he questioned, 
sternly. 

“As truly as yours is Martin Shields,” returned 
David, lightly, meeting his glance frankly. “ I 
was baptized ‘ David Meredith.’ ” 

“ I want to keep you, young man.” Martin 
was pushing the hay into the hay-cutter with 
more energy than seemed at all necessary. 
“There is something about you I like. But I 
don’t want you to be the means of taking money 
out of my pocket.” 

“ Oh, I don’t eat much,” laughed David. “ I 
am n poor stick if I am not worth my board.” 

“You are an epicure, I see; I’ll soon cure you 
of that. Are you running away from justice?” 


154 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


he asked, lifting his head and fixing his search- 
ing eyes upon him. 

‘‘Not quite,’’ said David, seriously. 

“ Is your father living ?” 

“Yes,” said David, with strong emotion. 

“You haven’t run away from him?” The 
emotion in this voice was equally uncontrolled. 
“If you have, run hack as fast as you ran 
away.” 

David turned and went into the house; his 
eyes were blinded by tears. Was his brother so 
near his father as that ? Was he ready, waiting 
for him to be revealed ? 

As Martin Shields neared the kitchen door he 
met Tramp, the huge Newfoundland, and, giving 
him an unmerciful kick with his heavy leather 
boot, he hissed through his closed teeth, “So you 
killed a hen yesterday !” and, with another kick 
as the dog slunk yelping to the wall, “You think 
you will kill another to-day, do you? I will 
show you who is master.” 

“ Oh ! dear,” quivered Nomie, standing in the 
shed. 

David, coloring with anger, started to the door. 

“Don’t say anything,” pleaded Dixie, with her 
hand on his arm. “He loves Tramp ; he is only 
punishing him.” 

“The dog doesn’t know for what,” said David, 
yielding to the gentle pressure. “ But I will not 
worry you.” 


SERVING. 


155 


As Martin Shields came in with an armful of 
wood Meredith was saying to Nomie, 

‘‘ Goethe said a fine thing : ‘ Man is the dog^s 
god-’ 

‘‘ Then he has a right to punish,” said Martin, 
in a grating voice, throwing his wood into the 
wood-box. 

I should think he would aspire to be like his 
own God,” said David. 

“ Doesn’t he punish, I’d like to know ?” 

‘‘ He is just.” 

It is your work to keep this wood-box filled ; 
it will become you better than preaching. And 
if Dixie has cream ready to churn to-day, you 
may go at it as soon as the cream is ready. Did 
you ever churn ?” 

‘‘ For fun — yes.” 

‘‘ I guess all you have ever done has been for 
fun ; I want churning in earnest. Winter butter 
is a rarity, and Dixie makes first-class butter. 
Don’t stand around and talk to her and make 
fine quotations, but see if you can earn your salt 
to-day.” 

“Do you eat much salt?” Nomie whispered 
behind David. She was very glad that Uncle 
Martin’s “ scoldings ” did not seem to frighten 
the strange young man, and that he didn’t “ an- 
swer back,” as Frank used to do. Uncle Martin 
had struck Frank once, and she had been so 
frightened. 


156 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Do you know anything about cutting or 
packing ice?’’ Martin inquired at the break- 
fast-table. 

Nothing ; I never saw it done.” 

Then you won’t be much help.” 

‘‘ I would prefer not to cut ice to-day ; I am 
not accustomed to your climate, and I had symp- 
toms of an old trouble — pleurisy — last night, and 
it kept me awake.” 

I don’t believe in such shirking. You do as 
I say, or you don’t do at all. You look strong 
enough ; you can load and drive, if you can’t 
do anything else. Do you ‘prefer’ not to do 
that?” 

“ I would rather have nothing to do with the 
ice. Is that a part of the regular farm-work ?” 

“ I did not remember it when I engaged you. 
I help Mr. Johnson fill his house, and he and his 
man help me fill mine. Mine was done the last 
cold snap, and he was over this morning to see 
about his.” 

“ I am not working for him,” said David, in a 
firm but easy tone. 

“You are to do as I say, or nothing at all,” 
cried Martin, in a loud voice. 

David compressed his lips and said nothing. 

“You obey me or leave my roof My ser- 
vants do not usually dictate to me.” 

“ It does not strike me as fair,” returned David, 
in a tone of suppressed anger. “ But if you please, 


SERVING. 


157 


we will talk about it after breakfast; our conver- 
sation can hardly be pleasant to the others.’’ 

‘‘ I’ll talk now or not at all. You go with me 
to the mill-pond to-morrow morning or leave my 
house to-day.” 

‘‘I will consider, sir,” said David, respectfully. 

Schenck piled several hot cakes upon David’s 
plate with his most conciliating smile. Dixie 
sent Nomie into Aunt Martin’s room to ask if 
she would like another cup of tea. 

Uncle Martin will be reasonable,” Dixie said 
as David was tying on a big apron preparatory 
to churning; ‘‘he isn’t like himself. You see 
how little he eats, and Aunt Martin says he 
cannot sleep. He prides himself upon being 
honest and just.” 

“He is unreasonable; he should hire a man 
to do this work. I engaged to take the care of 
the stock and to cut wood, to do ‘chores’ about 
the house if necessary, and nothing besides. I 
have my father to think of ; it would be more 
than unpleasant for him to know that I have 
had an attack of pleurisy in that cold room.” 

“ Uncle Martin is easily touched; you wouldn’t 
believe it. He cries as easily as a woman. And 
his tongue is as quick as his tears. He is so 
broken !” 

David seized the dasher and churned with a 
will. It was almost as much fun as when he was 
a boy. Must he record that conversation for his 


158 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


father? Would his father be ashamed of him? 
He had been angry with his brother, and his 
pride had resented the tone of command. How 
ill-fitted he was to serve ! 


IX. 

Erkatos. 

“ "TvIXIE, who is churning ?” 

^ ‘‘ Mr. Meredith.” 

‘‘Isn’t that too fast? He will bring it too 
quick.” 

“ I think not ; he makes regular strokes. He 
is counting every stroke, to see how many will 
bring it, and Nomie hovers around him as 
amused as she can be.” 

“ It seems to me that you are all taken with 
this stranger.” 

“Is he a stranger ? I had forgotten it. Does 
Uncle Martin like him ?” 

“ He does not say much. He doesn’t judge in 
a hurry, like some folks. Is he going to fill Mr. 
Johnson’s ice-house to-morrow ?” 

“ Yes,” said Dixie. 

“ Dixie, bring me my calico wrapper.” 

“ Why, Aunt Martin ! What for ?” 

“ What do people usually want dresses for ? I 
am going to get up ; I’m going to sit up a little 
while every day until I can sit up all day. I 
know a woman who had had rheumatism for 


159 


160 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


years, or spine disease, or something, and she 
had a shock — something burst into the room 
and frightened her — and she got well. And 
I’ve had a shock. It has gone all over me, 
and I am going to try to get well. I don’t 
think I have tried very much ; I kind of gave 
up everything and felt hopeless. If I had been 
around the house, things would have been differ- 
ent. Gilbert never would have come to such a 
pass ; I could have made things straight between 
him and his father. But the boy has kept away 
from me ; I’ve hardly had a talk with him for 
six months.” 

Let me find Uncle Martin to help you up.” 

No ; I want to surprise him. Call Schenck.” 

Schenck came, and lifted her gently and with 
the skill of a trained nurse into the chair that 
Dixie pushed close to the bed. Pillows were 
placed at her back, and in the chair for limbs 
and feet to rest on. 

‘‘Sylvie, you look* almost young and pretty 
again,” said Schenck, jokingly. 

“You be off and see how that butter is com- 
ing. I want Dixie to stay in the room all the 
time I sit up, for I may turn faint, as I did the 
last time. You can take it up, too, if she will 
trust you.” 

“ I trust him more than I trust myself,” said 
Dixie as he softly went out. 

Schenck wore old slippers about the house, 


ERRANDS. 


161 


and made no more noise than a bird hopping 
from one twig to another. 

‘‘ Schenck has brightened up wonderfully since 
Christmas/’ said Aunt Martin ; I wonder what 
he has taken into his head now?” 

It brightens him up to have so much to do. 
I have let him help me lately ; it is more en- 
couraging than sharpening his razor for an hour 
at a time. What a good old soul he is !” 

Dixie was dusting the mantel as she spoke. 
She could find something to do in that room for 
some time. 

That’s the kind of a stepmother I’ve been,” 
Aunt Martin went on, in a self-reproachful voice. 
“And if Gilbert stays away and freezes to death, 
as I dreamed last night, or gets into prison, as 
his father dreamed, I shall have only myself to 
blame. I’d get up and hobble after him if I 
could. When my head doesn’t spin and my 
back doesn’t splinter and split, I’m going to 
begin to help darn the stockings. Now that I 
can’t afford to pay the doctor, I had better get 
well,” she added, with grim humor. “I may 
have to thank Gilbert yet for getting me out 
of bed. The doctor says he knows a woman 
that won’t get out of bed; she sends for him, 
and he goes, as in duty bound, but it’s no 
manner of use : she will not help herself. He 
says she is discouraged. Mr. Shields says he 
would kindle a fire under her bed if she was 


11 


162 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


his wife. How kind he is to me ! But I don’t 
wonder that women do get discouraged; the 
cares of this world are enough to set anybody 
crazy. My mother knew a woman who went out 
to the barn and hanged herself because she was 
too discouraged to live any longer. Dixie, don’t 
you get too full of care. That’s another thing I 
want to get up for — ^to help you bear the burden 
and the heat of the day. You don’t think any 
more about going away, do you?” she asked, 
plaintively. 

Dixie was arranging the bottles on the bureau ; 
the face reflected in the glass over the bureau was 
a very serious one. 

“Not now — not this winter. But I must do 
the best I can for Nomie,” Dixie answered, 
firmly. 

“Nomie is well enough off What do you 
want to do with herf^ 

“ Bathe her in the ocean and give her out-of- 
door life through the long winter.” 

“ Does she have plenty of milk ?” 

“ She has some.” 

“ Why not plenty ?” with a quick sharpness in 
her voice. 

“Aunt Martin, you mustn’t ask me question^. 
You know we have to sell butter and use milk 
that is skimmed.” 

“ She ought to have the rich milk ; give it to 
her after this. Do you hear me ?” 


EBEANDS. 


163 


“Yes, and thank you,’’ said Dixie. 

The face reflected in the glass was not a serious 
one now. 

“ I’m afraid I’ve thought too much of money, 
and that is why that was allowed to be taken. I 
hope I have a heart to learn lessons with, if I am 
such an old woman. The minister was here yes- 
terday, and he prayed that I might see all my 
mistakes and mend them. Rather a plain prayer, 
but I was glad of it. That set me thinking. I 
used to think people outgrew the time of having 
trouble, but my worst trouble has come since 
I’ve grown old. And I used to think people 
got to be good naturally by the time they were 
old, but I’ve learned better. And I’ve learned 
the grandest thing of all — that even old folks 
may improve themselves, as well as young folks. 
Abby said that the last time she was here, and I 
can’t forget it ; there’s a good deal of truth in it. 
So I begin to hope for Mr. Shields and me. I 
wish I could tell him so, but I can’t talk as free 
and easy to anybody as I can to you.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Martin, just think of having you 
out in the dining-room again !” 

“ I can’t think of it yet ; it is almost like com- 
ing back from the dead. I want to live the kind 
of a life that I would live if I had come back. 
Dixie, I’ve been a church-member over sixty 
years, and I feel now as if I were being con- 
verted over again.” 


164 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘^Perhaps you are/’ said Dixie; ‘‘you talk 
like it.” 

“That’s worth living to be old for, ain’t it, 
now ? I wonder how it happened ?” 

Dixie was silent. Could any one say? 

“I don’t believe I shall fuss so much over 
little things now, but I may ; I won’t boast. I 
don’t want you to live over my mistakes. I was 
awake in the night thinking them over. I have 
let little things keep me from church, and I have 
kept you from church when there has been no 
good reason.” 

Dixie knew that, to her sorrow. 

“And I have stinted my soul for the sake of 
my poor perishing body, and I have behaved as 
though I had no mind to improve. I’ve only 
had a body ; I’ve forgotten my soul and my 
mind. I don’t wonder that I’m a narrow, self- 
ish old woman. Abby was right when she said 
it, and I’m glad that she was called upon to say it.” 

“ I wouldn’t have let her say it if I had been 
here,” said Dixie, warmly. 

“I know it better than anybody. But I’ve 
turned over a new leaf now the New Year is 
coming. I’m going to be better to Joe and to 
Jesse than I was to poor Gilbert. I want him 
to come back and find me around. Mr. Shields 
is going to have put in the papers ‘ If G. will 
come back, all will be forgiven.’ His father put 
that in the paper about him, but he would not 


EEEANDS. 


165 


go back : he wanted to have a good time being 
bad. I believe if he could find his father’s 
grave he would kneel on it and kiss the dirt. 
I never saw a man so broken. That churn- 
dasher has stopped ; the butter must have come. 
But I don’t want you to go yet.” 

“ Mr. Savage understands it all ; he is worth 
more than I am about the house.” 

‘‘ I wish he could help you wash.” 

He will help with the ironing next week, he 
says.” 

‘‘He earns his board; he ought not to pay, 
anyhow. I’m glad he makes it easier for you.” 

“ I was not willing for him to help me at first, 
but it seems to make him so happy I can’t 
refuse.” 

“ What does he do evenings ?” 

“ Oh, he talks a little, and sits by the fire, and 
puts wood in ; and then he goes to the window, 
and looks out, and comes back ; and then he goes 
through the programme again,” laughed Dixie. 

Aunt Martin smiled ; how well she knew poor 
old Schenck’s ways ! He would not open a book 
if there were anything else he could do ; and 
when he attempted to read, he would raise his 
eyes every two minutes to ask some foolish ques- 
tion. He had such a way of asking questions 
that a little thought would enable him to answer 
for himself ! If he were not so very good, how 
tiresome he would be! 


166 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘'Aunt Martin,” said Dixie, giving an ener- 
getic poke at something that had dropped be- 
hind the bureau, “ it is easier to say what isn’t 
in this room than what is.” 

“Mr. Shields stores away everything in this 
room that he wants to keep safe,” was the com- 
plaining answer, “and it isn’t such a place to 
keep things safe in, after all, as I told him this 
morning.” 

“ Why, Aunt Martin, how could you ?” pro- 
tested Dixie. 

“ I did. Human nature has to come out some- 
times ; I can’t bear everything in silence.” 

“ You contradictory woman !” exclaimed Dixie. 

“ How I did lie awake and think last night !” 
Nothing could stop Aunt Martin when she fell 
into one of her trains of thought. “And the 
things I thought of! I even thought about a 
patch mother put on a dress once ; and how it 
didn’t match, and I didn’t like to wear it to 
school; and how she hid Thaddeus of Warsaw, 
and wouldn’t let me finish it ; and how I cried 
about it. I’ve remembered that and never taken 
books away from Gilbert.” 

“ I’ve seen some books in his room that should 
have been taken away,” admitted Dixie — “ stories 
of adventure ; the kind that that gentleman writes 
who lives in the handsome house on the hill. 
You haven’t seen it. He writes one a week ; sits 
up nights, and takes brandy toward morning to 


ERRANDS. 


167 


keep him up. He isn’t willing for his son to read 
his books, and Gilbert had three of them in his 
room at one time. He told Uncle Martin that 
he kept profane language out of his books and 
tried to give boys ideas of honor and bravery. 
How easy money comes to him ! He sends his 
wife to the seaside and to the mountains, and 
wraps her in furs ; and his children have every- 
thing. Money comes so easy to some, and almost 
never comes to others. But it isn’t money I 
want ; it is some of the good things that money 
can get.” 

“Why, Dixie Herbert, what do you mean? 
Are you discontented?” 

Was Dixie growing discontented? It was not 
a discontented face that turned to smile at her 
aunt : 

“ Oh no, auntie ; I was only philosophizing.” 

“ You and Abby are just alike.” There was a 
trace of discontent about Aunt Martin. “You 
both expect to get just what you want.” 

“We have the same reason that every one else 
has.” 

“Now, she expects something — she doesn’t 
know what,” continued Aunt Martin, unheeding 
the interjected remark — “to keep her from going 
to Caleb’s, and Mercy knows what it will be.” 

“Mercy does know,” said Dixie, “and she will ’ 
know some time.” 

Naomi’s head appeared in the doorway; her 


168 


DAVID STRONG ’S ERRAND. 


head was always appearing somewhere. She 
pushed the door wider open. 

‘‘Talking secrets?” she asked. 

“ Has the butter come ? I suppose that’s no 
secret,” said Aunt Martin, tartly. 

“ Splendid ! Perfect ! And Mr. Savage is 
looking at it with his glasses on.” 

“ Is there so little, that he can’t see it with the 
naked eye ?” inquired Dixie. 

“ No, there’s much ; and it’s hard and white.” 

“ Is Mr. Shields there? and what is he doing ?” 
How often every day Aunt Martin asked where 
Mr. Shields was and what he was doing ! 

“ He’s standing in the kitchen doorway with 
his hat on his head and his hands in his pocket,” 
replied the faithful reporter, “and he’s telling 
Mr. Meredith to bring a bushel of yellow turnips 
up into the kitchen and cut them fine for the 
sheep. I just told him that he was like that 
king of England — I forget which — who nev^r 
smiled after his son was lost.” 

“Naomi Herbert!” Dixie turned and shook the 
calico-duster at her. “I believe you manufacture 
kings of England to suit every circumstance.” 

“I don’t,” said Naomi, with the utmost se- 
riousness ; “ they were all manufactured before 
we had any circumstances. And I told him 
about Edward II. — I am sure it was Edward 
II. — who broke his oath to his father. And 
what a sad life he had afterward ! And he said 


EERANDS. 


169 


that he had a sad life, and he deserved it because 
he had not been good to his father. And then 
Mr. Meredith’s eyes got full of tears — I’m sure 
they did — and I know by the way Uncle Martin 
looked at him that he thinks he has run away 
from his father. I think I would go back to him 
before I’d cut turnips.” 

Somebody from behind gave Nomie a push far- 
ther into the room and then edged herself in — 
a little woman with a round face and iron-gray 
curls hanging over her eyes, dressed neatly and 
tastefully in black. 

Sarah Harper ! What in the world ?” ex- 
claimed Aunt Martin, with fervor. “ What 
brought you here ? Of all things !” 

I rode part-way and walked part-way, and 
here I am,” cried Sarah Harper, with energy 
enough in her voice for two w^omen. I’ve come 
to stay a while. There’s a slight unpleasantness 
between William’s wife and me, and I thought 
I’d stay away until she feels better about it; it 
takes her longer to feel better about it than it 
does me. — Dixie, don’t you ever live with your 
brother and his wife if you can anyhow do any 
better.” 

I shall have to do better,” said Dixie ; but 
some day I may live with my sister and her hus- 
band.” 

Yes, Dixie, you shall,” promised Naomi, with 
all sincerity. 


170 


DAVID STRONG’S EBBAND. 


Sylvie, are you glad to see me ?” Sarah pro- 
pounded. ‘‘ Tell me the whole truth. Tell me 
before I put my satchel down.” 

It depends upon how you behave this time. 
Don’t make fun of Schenck, and you shall stay a 
month.” 

'A month ’ ! I intend to stay a lifetime.” 

Sarah Harper would have been more than 
startled could she have known that in her jest 
she was speaking the truth. It was one of her 
amusements to make extravagant plans. Draw- 
ing off her gloves, she went to the glass to look 
at herself. Nomie had counted once how many 
times Sarah Harper had peeped into the glass in 
one day. One of the serious duties that she lived 
for was appearances ;” in her secret thoughts 
she felt that there was a ‘^chance” of some kind 
for her — ^yet. She sighed before she could bring 
herself to think that ‘‘yet.” How often unlooked- 
for events happened in one’s middle life ! In the 
story-books marrying and fortunes coming and 
great opportunities of usefulness seemed to be 
piled on to youth, but in real life — And she 
lived in real life. How many stories she knew 
of changes coming when a woman was near fifty 
and past ! So she might as well live in hope even 
if she had to die in despair ; and to that end, the 
furtherance of her hope, she kept herself as at- 
tractive as the fast-coming years would allow, and 
held on to her youth with a persistency with which 


ERRANDS. 


171 


she held on to nothing else. Not a day of her 
life passed that she did not wish herself ten years 
younger. Youth was vivacious, therefore Sarah 
Harper kept up a perpetual stream of talk ; youth 
was interested in everything, therefore Sarah Har- 
per read every book she could obtain possession 
of, learned every kind of fancy-work and went 
to every place to which she could draw out an 
invitation. Some of the unhappy wives and 
engaged girls ridiculed Sarah Harper’s aspira- 
tions, her little ways of keeping young and her 
undisguised manoeuvrings toward a permanent 
settlement in life. Dixie did not understand 
her ; she pitied her without knowing why, and 
yet she loved her. 

It is too bad that an intense desire ‘to be the 
something to somebody that no one else is should 
so often make itself ridiculous. Perhaps the 
ridiculous part is that it is any somebody ; most 
people can understand about some somebody. 
I wonder if the right kind of love-stories fos- 
ters this feeling? I wonder if the true love- 
stories in the Bible do? What woman’s heart 
has not beat faster with Hannah’s when her hus- 
band asked her, thus proving it in the very ques- 
tion, ‘‘Am I not better to thee than ten sons ?” 

I am sure, however, that the sweet old Bible 
stories make women and girls as sweet as they 
are, and it was not the real life-stories that God 
lived in that had touched Sarah Harper. It 


172 


.J>AVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


was the sensational stories of the day ; she had 
squeezed two into the top of her little black 
satchel that morning. Nevertheless, about her 
aspirations there was something that was pa- 
thetic. She could not give up her youth and 
become middle-aged ; and it was a pity, because 
she was moving on toward old age and losing all 
the blessedness of the middle-aged. With all her 
little follies, she made no trouble, and was quick 
to see the thing to be done next and alert to do 
it. Dixie was heartily glad to see her ; she felt 
the same as if she were being lifted over a hard 
place. 

‘‘ I don’t know whether it will relieve you and 
Cousin Martin or not, but William met Gilbert 
trudging through the snow looking miserable 
enough when he was on the way to Plainfield 
yesterday. He took him in and gave him a lift. 
He told William he had sold his overcoat, and 
that he was trying to, get work.” 

^ Sold his overcoat ’ ! In this weather ! Why 
didn’t he sell his skin ?” exclaimed Aunt Martin. 

I don’t know whether to let you tell Mr. Shields 
or not ; only it’s something to know he’s alive, 
and not frozen to death yet.” 

“Sylvie, I’ll stay and work for you three 
months if you’ll give me your old brown 
satin,” answered Sarah, in her most business- 
like manner. 

“ ‘ Old brown satin ’ ! I’ve only had it thirty 


EBBANDS. 


173 


years; and besides, I’m going to keep it for 
Dixie.” 

‘‘ Oh no, Aunt Martin,” protested Dixie ; do 
give it to Sarah.” 

‘‘I sha’n’t give it to anybody yet,” was the 
sharp reply ; I’m not thinking of making 
my will. Dixie, you can go out and see to 
the dinner now; Sarah can finish the room, 
and then she can get me to bed and rub me.” 

Dinner was the excitement of the day. How 
little this repressed country-girl knew of the ex- 
citements and the incitements of other girls’ lives ! 

Jesse had brought the news that all the village 
girls and boys were going on a sleigh-ride to- 
night. That meant straw on the bottom of a 
wagon-body placed on runners, bufialo-robes and 
blankets to keep them warm, and four horses with 
jingling bells to draw them over the snow. It 
meant moonlight and gay companionship and 
songs and becoming acquainted with one an- 
other and such a merry, laughing time ! Dixie 
had not been invited ; every one knew that she 
had not time to go. 

I suspect that Dixie, in some experiences, was 
more middle-aged to-day than Sarah Harper; 
still, Dixie could never grow old, and oh how 
old Sarah Harper would find herself to be some 
day ! Sarah Harper’s heart echoed the stanza 
that she had found quoted in one of those books 
in the top of her satchel : 


174 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


“What shall I be at fifty, 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five?” 

Sarah Harper was nearly fifty now, but she had 
found the world bitter at twenty-five. Dixie 
would never find it hitter. She would have 
understood these four lines as little as Sarah 
would have understood the stanza Dixie had 
learned that morning from a religious paper 
that the minister had brought Aunt Martin. 
She liked it so much that she was moved to 
repeat it to Mr. Meredith as he bent over the 
bushel-basket of yellow turnips : 

“‘Holy Father, gracious Son, 

Prove my grateful love to thee 
Hast thou errands to be run? 

Here am I. O Lord, send me.’” 


X. 

Pkovidences. 

I T was cold that day. Dixie moved about the 
kitchen with an old scarlet-wool shawl tied 
about her shoulders, and a pair of worn arctics 
belonging to Aunt Martin over her low shoes. 
The water in a pail was freezing upon the table 
nearest the window, and the dishcloth upon a 
nail under the mantel behind the stove hung 
stiff in its folds. Much of Schenck’s time was 
spent in passing between kitchen and dining- 
room shoving big dry sticks of wood into the 
stoves. Dry wood, and plenty of it, was one of 
the luxuries of Aunt Martin’s farm ; she told her 
neighbors that she had never had green wood to 
try her patience. Dixie said that dry wood was 
one of her blessings. 

A blue-jay, two sparrows and a small flock of 
snow-birds had been beguiled to the piazza in 
front of the dining-room windows by Nomie’s 
plentiful supply of crumbs; to feed the birds 
was her first work after breakfast. The child was 
standing so long watching them this afternoon, 

175 


176 DAVID STRONG'S ERRAND. 

as they flew boldly to the tempting scattered 
morsels, that Dixie had brought a waterproof 
cloak and wrapped her in it. The blue-jay 
came first, and she had time to describe him 
to Dixie and to talk about his breast and 
wings before the sparrows flew down. She 
wondered where they flew from. 

“ If I were you, I’d go South,” she said, with 
her lips close to the pane. ‘‘ Haven’t you heard 
about Hhe Sunny South’?” 

‘‘ My poor little bird !” sighed Dixie. 

‘‘ Dix ! Oh, Dix ! Here comes another load of 
Mr. Johnson’s ice, and Mr. Meredith is driving. 
There’s a place that isn’t safe on the pond, and 
after school Joe and Jesse are going to see if 
they can find it. Gilbert knew where it was. 
Oh, Dixie, if Gilbert is hungry to-day, people 
won’t throw out crumbs to him. God cares for 
the sparrows ; I should think he would care for 
poor Gilbert. Do you suppose he will beg ? It 
must be dreadful to be a beggar.” 

He may come to it, but first he will ofier to 
work.” 

‘‘ Like Mr. Meredith. Aren’t you almost 
through out there in the kitchen? I’m com- 
ing out to show you my cloak.” Throwing 
hack her head and gathering the folds of dark 
waterproof about her slender figure, with slow 
and majestic steps Nomie marched out into the 
kitchen. ‘‘Dix, I am the empress of Hussia; 


PROVIDENCES. 


177 


and my cloak is sable fur, and it is trimmed 
with gold and precious stones, and it cost forty- 
three thousand dollars. How do you suppose I 
feel r 

‘‘Very grand,’’ responded Dixie, with a smile 
in her eyes. She was not an empress in a sable 
cloak : she was in Aunt Martin’s kitchen wash- 
ing the pot in which she had cooked the dinner 
of the day before. 

“No, I don’t — not as grand as you would 
think, because I pity you in that tattered shawl.” 

“ Then don’t look at me.” 

“ Do you suppose she doesn’t look at shivering 
people?” demanded Nomie, the imperial progress 
being arrested by the basket of cut turnips on 
the hearth. 

“ If you don’t mind casting aside your royal 
garment, you may brush up around the stove in 
the dining-room.” 

“And be a queen for all that,” said Nomie, 
with dignity ; “ only I don’t think I want to be 
a queen, Dix.” 

“ It’s as well you don’t, for that’s one of the 
things I don’t expect to get for you.” 

“ What do you expect to get for me ?” asked 
Nomie, coaxingly nestling her head against her 
sister’s shoulder. 

What did Dixie expect for her little sister ? 
A life like her own without the work, the hard- 
ship and the hindering, and no good work to bless 
12 


178 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


them with. Just then she remembered, as she 
felt hindered, that the Holy Spirit had hindered 
Paul once. She did not love study, but in the 
Bible she found little helps that some students 
do not find. 

“A slate some day,’’ she answered, pushing 
Nomie away with a laugh, ‘‘and the game of 
‘Authors.’ ” 

“ Here you are !” shouted a voice in the din- 
ing-room ; and before Dixie could turn, the door 
opening upon the piazza had been closed and the 
owner of the voice had disappeared, but near the 
door stood a muffled figure crowned with a black 
bonnet and green veil and holding a Maltese cat 
in her arms. “ I was so cold Mischief and I had 
to come,” apologized a trembling voice. “ I was 
afraid I would freeze to death ; my fire wouldn’t 
burn ; so I hailed Mr. J ohnson and asked him 
to bring me. This cold snap won’t last long, and 
then I’ll go back. I didn’t want the neighbors 
to come in and find me stiff and frozen.” 

“ It wouldn’t be a pleasant sight,” said Dixie, 
wiping her wet fingers that she might undo the 
many mufflers. 

“ I’m so glad you have come !” cried Nomie, 
seizing the cold hand of the old woman. “Now 
we have company, and I wish we could have a 
fire in the parlor and nice things for tea, as we 
used to do before Aunt Martin was sick. But 
nobody is company enough for a fire in the par- 


PROVIDENCES. 


179 


lor ; even the minister goes into Aunt Martin’s 
room.” 

I’m afraid — I’m afraid — I’m almost afraid,” 
quavered Miss Abby — that if my prayer isn’t 
answered soon ” (Miss Abby spoke of a prayer 
being answered as others spoke of an answer to a 
letter), “ I shall have to go to Caleb’s. How I do 
dread it nobody knows. I don’t want to hold on 
to my own will too tight.” 

I wouldn’t,” said Dixie ; you don’t know 
how. Miss Abby.” 

‘‘ I don’t want to learn in my old age,” re- 
turned Miss Abby, in a cheery voice. I don’t 
think I will begin to-day, any way.” 

It was like company ” that afternoon in Aunt 
Martin’s room; Nomie was almost satisfied. Aunt 
Martin was pillowed up in bed, robed in a rufiled 
night-dress, her brown hair pushed back under a 
pretty cap bordered with lace. Miss Abby was 
settled in a comfortable chair near the stove knit- 
ting on a gray-woolen sack for Cousin Martin, 
feeling so watched ” that a smile hovered over 
her thin lips and her voice was glad with over- 
flowing gratitude, for were they not all pleased to 
see her ? and had not Sylvie said she must not 
‘‘ think of going back until the thermometer was 
up to twenty ” ? In her close-fitting black dress, 
with a faded pink ribbon at her throat, Sarah 
Harper was perched on the foot of the bed with 
a book in her lap and in her hand a pair of Joe’s 


180 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


pants that he had gone coasting in. If it were 
not for the memory of Gilbert, his mother would 
have told his father to forbid Joe’s going coasting 
again ; as it was, she watched Sarah’s fingers and 
the neat patching with a solemn satisfaction. 
With nothing in her hands to be busy about, 
Dixie had found a seat with Nomie on the home- 
made rug ; passing her arm around the child, she 
had drawn the curly head down to her shoulder. 

There were so many for supper ! Would that 
last loaf of bread hold out, or might she better 
slip out and make biscuits for tea ? Schenck was 
keeping the fires up. What a luxury it was to 
sit still and do nothing hut listen ! She enjoyed 
the brisk talk almost as eagerly as Nomie. Years 
later she learned how starved her intellect had 
been all that dreary while at the farmhouse, hut 
it was not a ‘‘dreary while” at the time she was 
living it : Dixie’s present was always good. She 
lost nothing of it by regretting the past or by 
building fine air-castles for the future. Her pres- 
ent was full enough for prayer, for thanksgiving 
and for work ; her hope for the future was all in 
her prayers. 

“ I believe I am tired of visiting around and 
finding a home here and a home there,” said 
Sarah, as if in reply to a suggestion from herself 
and speaking with more than her usual emphasis ; 
“I believe I envy people who are settled down. 
Perhaps it’s a sign of the creeping on of age, but 


PROVIDENCES. 


181 


it must be such a rest to go to sleep under your 
own roof.’’ 

‘'I never knew anything else,” said Aunt 
Martin; ‘'perhaps I do not know how I am 
blessed.” 

“You certainly do not; you have fretted and 
worried and been anxious all your days. I have 
often wondered how you would feel if you had a 
worse trouble than the potato-rot.” 

“ You know now,” returned Aunt Martin. 

“ I’ve been shut out of one house and shut into 
another scores of times. Twice I’ve been on the 
point of having a home of my own. I had been 
keeping house for John Bradford a year after 
his wife died; it was a pleasant house, and he 
had two hundred acres of good land, besides a 
large peach-orchard, and he was not a disagree- 
able man at all. His two sons were pleasant- 
spoken boys — Will and Harry. Will was twenty 
years older than Harry, and Harry was seven. 
But J ohn died a week after we were engaged ; 
he fell in a fit as he was raking my fiower-bed, 
and died that night. That plan was frustrated. 
And then I went to keep house for Simon 
Hayes ; his second wife was laid up with rheu- 
matism. His first wife had been twenty years 
older than himself ; he was twenty-two when he 
married her. She was a widow ; and when she 
died, he married a woman just as much younger 
as the other had been older. His second wife 


182 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


used to laugh about it and call herself his com- 
pensation.’’ 

‘‘What queer things you do know!” exclaimed 
Nomie.” 

Dixie looked down into Nomie’s face; she 
was listening eagerly, as she listened to every- 
thing. Would it be better to entice her out into 
the dining-room with the promise of an hour of 
reading aloud? Would Nomie ever become cul- 
tivated? Would she ever learn about the best 
sweet things ? Would she think that a home of 
her own must be obtained at any cost, at any 
sacrifice? Sarah Harper was not wicked, per- 
haps, but was she not coarse? Why did not 
Miss Abby speak and say something lovely, 
that Nomie might hear it? Might she speak 
herself? 

“ Nomie dear, shall we go out into the kitchen 
and read English history ?” she whispered. 

“ Oh no, please ; let’s stay and hear American 
history,” pleaded Nomie, aloud. 

“Well,” continued Sarah, pursuing the thread 
of her experiences, “ after that I went to Henry 
Spofford’s for a while. He was her third hus- 
band, and she was hiB third wife. They were a 
pleasant couple to live with — easily satisfied and 
with plenty of books. I was sorry to leave them. 
I used to sit up till midnight reading.” 

“ I wish I could,” said Nomie. 

“And then Mrs. Renwick sent for me. She 


PROVIDENCES. 


183 


was his second wife. He had married her sister 
when she was a little girl seven years old, and she 
remembered climbing into his lap after the wed- 
ding and kissing him. I never read anything so 
odd and strange and queer in books as some of 
the things IVe been in and known about. Peo- 
ple get through, and the end comes somehow; 
and that is my view of life.’’ 

I haven’t any views,” said Dixie. “ I don’t 
pretend to know anything about life, but I do 
not accept your views, Sarah ; they are selfish 
and narrowing, and they leave no place for us to 
be taken care of.” 

Miss Abby stayed her fingers while she spoke : 

I am glad you said that, Dixie ; it reminds 
me of a sermon I read once. I remember nothing 
of it except the title, but that is a help in itself : 
‘The Intertwining of God’s Plans with Our 
Plans.’ I know something good is on the way 
to me now. — Sarah, you think my life a very 
poor kind of success, but I do believe I am to 
be kept in the house where I’ve wound the clock 
and watched the sunrise for over fifty years.” 

“ How do you think it will come ?” inquired 
Sarah, quizzically. “Like the manna, and all 
you will have to do will be to pick it up?” 

“I should think that story in itself would 
rebuke your unbelief,” replied Miss Abby, 
severely. 

“ It doesn’t, for it suited those times.” 


184 


DAVID STRONG’S EBBAND. 


But it was written for our comfort/’ said 
Miss Abby, quickly, ‘‘ and it couldn’t be for our 
comfort, but only to tantalize us, if it would not 
suit us as well.” 

‘‘ But I have as much faith as anybody, and 
my prayers are not answered ; so how can I 
believe that those promises were meant for me ?” 
retorted Sarah. 

I do not believe they were,” replied Miss 
Abby, quietly ; Christ made the promises to 
his disciples, and only those who fulfill his 
conditions have a right to his promises. Mf’ 
my word abide in you ye shall ask what ye 
will.’ I cannot see that his word abides in 
you to that degree.” 

‘‘ You are very plain,” said Sarah, tossing off 
her resentment with a laugh. I am a member 
of the church in good and regular standing.” 

‘‘ Externally, yes.” 

‘‘Aunt Abby, you are a regular old preacher, 
and T won’t listen to you.” 

“ I know that,” sighed Miss Abby ; “ you were 
in my Sunday-school class for years.” 

“Was she?” asked Nomie. “And now I am.” 

“ The girls I have taught ! Before there was 
a church in the village we had Sunday-school in 
the schoolhouse, and I never missed a Sunday 
when I could walk or catch a ride. I went rain 
or shine. That’s all the way I’ve had of doing 
good in my life.” 


PROVIDENCES. 


185 


‘‘And your pet subject was always prayer, but 
you never convinced me,’’ said Sarah, sternly. 

“ I never tried to ; that’s the work of the Holy 
Spirit. I only taught you the truth.” 

Sarah prided herself upon her practical com- 
mon sense; she intended to make her life a 
success yet. She considered Miss Abby vision- 
ary and transcendental; her definition of “trans- 
cendental,” however, was rather vague. 

“I don’t believe in sitting still and doing 
nothing but saying your prayers ; it may be 
the only comfort old folks have, but I haven’t 
come to it yet, thank the Lord !” declared Sarah, 
fervently. 

“I have,” Dixie was thinking, “thank the 
Lord !” but all she said aloud was, 

“What can you do when you can’t do any- 
thing, Sarah ?” 

“ That time hasn’t come to me ; I can always 
see something to do.” 

“ Something right ?” questioned Dixie. 

“Right enough. It is always right to look 
after yourself,” said Sarah, sharply. 

Then Sarah would blame her because she had 
not made a home for Nomie — ^because she had re- 
fused that beautiful home that Forest had prom- 
ised to make for them. But Miss Abby would 
not, and Miss Abby lived near the Lord. 

“ What are you looking so bright for ?” de- 
manded Sarah, drawing Dixie’s head back and 


186 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


peering down into her eyes. Sarah wore glasses 
in the privacy of her immediate circle of friends. 
^‘Are you getting visionary and seeing visions 
and spoiling all your good chances?” 

Have I such good chances ?” 

“Indeed you have — better than I ever had. 
I was hampered. You have youth and strength 
and a way of attracting people, and all the world 
before you if you were not content to shut your- 
self up here in that kitchen with not one mite of 
push or energy. Why don’t you do something 
for yourself besides drudge ?” 

“ She wouldn’t go away and leave me,” cried 
Naomi, nestling closer. “ Mother said we should 
keep together, and we always shall.” 

“ Sarah Harper, don’t you put thoughts in her 
head!” commanded Aunt Martin’s shrill voice. 
“ What could she do, I’d like to know ?” 

“ Several things ; I could enlighten her. The 
gentleman on the hill in that handsome new house 
— he writes these cheap ^ blood-and-thunder ’ sto- 
ries for hoys — wants some one like Dixie (his wife 
is an invalid) to be a kind of nurse and house- 
keeper and general supervisor, and to look after 
the children. I told him about Dixie ; he wants 
a lady-like person. He said the little sister would 
be no encumbrance, and he would give fifteen 
dollars a month and Nomie’s board. He has 
seen Dixie, and his wife saw her that day she 
called here with him to see about hay ; and he 


PROVIDENCES. 


187 


says she has been crazy after her ever since. He 
wouldn’t come here to see about it, but he asked 
me to speak to her.” 

You will do no such thing,” said Aunt Mar- 
tin. — Dixie, don’t you heed a word she says.” 

But Dixie was heeding it. A home for No- 
mie — a lovely home like that with that pretty, 
golden-haired mother and those three little girls 
in white dresses, with low voices and soft laughter 
and good times all day, with no kitchen for her- 
self — nothing harder than moving through large 
handsome rooms, superintending and giving or- 
ders and waiting upon that gracious lady. Could 
not Nomie become a lady like their mother in 
that house ? And oh how much fifteen dollars a 
month would do ! Homie might wear kid shoes 
and white dresses and a straw hat with blue rib- 
bon in summer-time. 

‘‘Oh, Dixie, will you go?” cried Nomie. “They 
have a pony and a pony-carriage and a piano.” 

Aunt Martin sat upright in bed : 

“ Naomi, don’t you talk nonsense. — Sarah Har- 
per, I don’t know what you mean by coming here 
and saying such things.” 

“ Dixie knows what I mean ; she has been 
ground down long enough,” returned Sarah. 

“ She hasn’t. — Have you, Dixie ?” (][uestioned 
Aunt Martin, beseechingly. 

“ No,” laughed Dixie. “ Lie down. Aunt Mar- 
tin.” 


188 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘ Sarah Harper, I should think you would be 
too ashamed to look me in the face.’’ 

'' I am,” said Sarah. '' Don’t you see how I 
keep my eyes on my work.” 

Everybody is against me,” said Aunt Mar- 
tin, dropping back exhausted among her pillows, 
the slow tears chasing one another over her 
cheeks. — Abby, make Dixie be reasonable and 
shut Sarah up.” 

“ I am reasonable,” said Dixie. 

“ I am shut up,” added Sarah. 

Sarah, I want to be one of your queer people 
for a day or two,” said Nomie ; I don’t want to 
be commonplace any longer.” 

I do ; I want always to be commonplace. It 
must be so uncomfortable to be uncommon,” ex- 
plained Dixie. I’m afraid I wouldn’t like to be 
a genius. Mr. Meredith is acquainted with a lady 
who is a doctor, and with another who has com- 
posed music and who sings in public, and with 
another who paints and has her pictures written 
about in the papers ; but I do not envy any of 
them. He says I am ‘ a simple fireside thing.’ 
It may be wrong, but I don’t know how to be 
anything else, and I don’t want to be.” 

That is because you are stupid,” interpolated 
Sarah. 

I know it,” laughed Dixie, and I don’t seem 
to care. To love people and work for them is all 
I want to do.” 


PEOVIDENGES. 


189 


Miss Abby/’ said Nomie, ‘‘wbat do you think 
your manna is 

‘‘ God knows, and so it doesn’t matter if I don’t 
know. It would be rather sad for me if I knew 
and he didn’t know.” 

‘‘But you could let him know,” replied the 
child. 

“ I couldn’t tell him all ; I do not know all 
about it myself. Mrs. Johnson thinks I’m queer 
not to want to go to my brother and his unknown 
wife, but I’m not a bit afraid that God thinks I’m 
queer.” 

“ You will not be dependent,” said Sarah ; 
“your land is worth something, and your help 
is worth something.” 

“ I’d rather keep my little property in my own 
hands.” 

“Now, that sounds worldly; and I thought 
you were such a saint,” said Sarah, with the 
utmost gravity. 

“As worldly as the book of Proverbs. I don’t 
see why the children of light shouldn’t have com- 
mon sense,” retorted Miss Abby. 

“ Dixie ! Oh, Dix !” Nomie lifted her head as 
the thought struck her. “ You said some time 
you would tell me how this crooked place in my 
back came. Isn’t now a good time ?” 

“ No,” answered Dixie, in a sharp voice. “ Oh, 
Nomie, my poor little sister, there is never a good 
time, because I did it.” 


190 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


^‘You did it?’’ repeated Nomie, in bewildered 
surprise. ‘‘What did you want to do it for?” 

“ One day, when you were such a wee, little 
thing, before you could walk — ” Dixie’s breath 
came short and quick. “You were a strong, 
chubby little thing, restless in all your motions, 
and you loved to have me carry you around; but 
you liked best to stand on a chair at the window 
and look out, or listen and crow and laugh while 
I tapped on the pane. And that day I lifted you 
to a chair near the window and stood with my 
arms about you ; mother cautioned me, so I was 
very careful of you. She stood near the mantel 
— how well I remember it ! — dusting the things 
on it. One of the girls ran past, and I wanted 
to speak to her. I knocked on the glass, and she 
turned and ran up the steps ; and before I knew 
what I was about I started for the door and left 
you, forgetting all about you. Mother screamed, 
and I heard a fall : you had tried to come after 
me. You were not sick at first, but you worried 
and cried, and the doctor said he could not decide 
where the injury was ; but we found out. It was 
terrible for mother — I know now how terrible. 
She never blamed me, but it was all the harder 
to bear for that. And this is why I must take 
care of you always and give my strength to you. 
Oh, Nomie, my poor dear little sister.” 

Nomie took Dixie’s head into her arms and 
rubbed her hands over her face. 


PROVIDENCES. 


191 


“ It isn’t bad — it isn’t real bad. You know I 
don’t care; of course I don’t care, because it 
makes you take care of me, and I like to be 
taken care of.” 

Aunt Martin’s surprise equaled Nomie’s : 

‘‘Well, I never knew that before, Dixie Her- 
bert. I knew you would give every drop of 
blood in your heart to her, but I never guessed 
the reason.” 

“That isn’t the reason,” cried JSfomie; “it’s 
only because she loves me. That wasn’t bad to 
do ; she only forgot me. It was my fault for 
trying to run after her.” 

“ So it was,” laughed Dixie through her tears, 
“ and you were a bad, naughty child.” 

“And you see, Dix” — Nomie’s tone was very 
convincing — “ God could have kept me from 
falling, and he didn’t. I think he wanted me 
to fall.” 

“ I think he did,” said Miss Abby, taking off 
her spectacles to wipe her eyes ; “ he will give 
you something all the better for it. You were 
his little sparrow all the time.” 

“ Then you think it was a providence ?” said 
Sarah, skeptically. 

“You call only good happenings providences,” 
replied Miss Abby, polishing her spectacles with 
the corner of her apron. “Now, I call every 
happening a providence, for how do I know 
whether it will turn out well or ill? You 


192 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


would call it a providence if somebody should 
leave you five thousand dollars, but it might be 
your undoing/’ 

I’d be willing to try it,” said Sarah. 

‘‘ Speaking about providences,” continued the 
old lady, I was thinking about Saul before I 
was up this morning ; I had never thought be- 
fore how his story proves that God orders every 
step. I was meditating in the dark, and I 
scratched a match and lighted the candle on 
the table at the head of the bed and took my 
Bible into bed and read about it. You know his 
father’s asses were lost, and he took a servant 
and went after them ; and when they couldn’t 
find them, they went to Samuel the seer to see 
if he could tell them where they had wandered 
off to. ‘Now the Lord had told Samuel in his 
ear a day before Saul came’ — -just think! a day 
before Saul came — ^that to-morrow he would send 
a man out of the land of Benjamin to him. 
And Samuel was so sure he would come that 
he told the cook to save a portion expressly for 
him. Didn’t the Lord know all about the asses? 
Didn’t he send them wandering off so that Saul 
would have a convenient excuse to go to Samuel? 
It does strike me how convenient the Lord makes 
things. There isn’t any haphazard about it. I 
think it is grand to be one of the animals he 
moves to do his will, but it is grander to be one 
of his children, loving to do it whether we know 


PROVIDENCES. 


193 


what it means or not. . Those asses being lost 
were one of the links in the chain of God’s 
providence. Perhaps Kish grumbled over their 
being lost, too. You don’t know, Cousin Sylvie, 
that Gilbert’s temptation and fall may not he a 
blessing to him. God could have hindered that, 
and he didn’t. And you may be sorry yet — I 
hope you will he — that you haven’t taken it 
better. And maybe you will care more for the 
hoy to come back to his Father in heaven than 
to his father on earth. God wants you to care 
more about the sin than about the loss of the 
money.” 

“Who says I don’t?” asked Aunt Martin, 
indignantly. 

“ If you do, you have a way of concealing it ; 
for you don’t cease to bewail the loss of the 
money, and I haven’t heard you say a word 
about the sin.” 

“ I am sorry for it,” said Aunt Martin, 
humbly. 

“Now the boy will find something to ask God 
to forgive him for, and that is a blessing. I 
remember my own experience. I kept the 
commandments pretty faithfully, and one day 
I was led into breaking one; and that opened 
my eyes. It was my blessing that I had some- 
thing definite to ask God to forgive me for — 
something besides original sin and sins of omis- 
sion.” 


13 


194 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


“ Oh, Miss Abby !” cried Nomie, all alive with 
curiosity ; what dreadful thing did you do ?” 

“ Nomie dear, that is rude,’’ said Dixie, gently. 

Tell us about another providence, Abhy ; I 
am interested,” begged Sarah. 

‘‘ There’s more in the same story. Samuel 
told Saul several things that would happen to 
him. Two men were to meet him at Rachel’s 
sepulchre and tell him that the asses were found. 
If one man had met him it wouldn’t have come 
true, or if two men had met him a mile on this 
side or that side of the sepulchre. God so 
ordered the steps on both sides that they would 
meet just there; if either had been detained, it 
could not have been so.” 

“ That is true,” declared Sarah. 

How Dixie was listening ! 

“And then he was bidden to go on to the plain 
of Tabor, and three men were to meet him there, 
one carrying three kids, another three loaves and 
the third a bottle of wine; and they were to 
salute him and give him two loaves of the bread. 
God told him all this before it happened. If any 
had failed, it would not have come true. If the 
man that carried the bottle of wine had persuaded 
the man that carried the kids to let him help and 
carry one kid because the wine wasn’t so much 
trouble, the sign would have failed ; and if they 
had given him the wine or a kid instead of the 
bread, or one loaf instead of two loaves, the sign 


PROVIDENCES. 


195 


would have failed. Probably all those men had 
a good reason for doing what they did — as good 
a reason as Saul had for going to Samuel ; hut 
they were moved of God all the same that he 
was.” 

‘‘Is that all? Don’t you know another?” 
asked Nomie. 

“Oh yes, indeed! I know about a man’s 
dream, and how he told it at just the right 
instant — how God moved him to tell it so that 
another man could overhear it.” 

“Miss Abhy, you know wonderful stories,” 
said Nomie, admiringly. 

“Surely I do — God’s own wonderful stories. 
Talk to me about story-books ! I know a story- 
book that out-wonders them all. — Gideon was a 
man whom God had sent against the Midianites, 
and the Lord was patient with him and knew 
how he might be afraid ; so he spoke to him and 
told him to go down to the host, for he had de- 
livered it to him, but if he felt afraid to go down 
alone, as well his human heart might, he should 
take his servant with him and he would hear 
something that would give him strength. God 
could have made him strong without using these 
simple means, but he does seem to love to work 
in our human ways. And when he went down 
with his servant, he didn’t say, ‘ I’m not afraid ; 
I’ll go without him,’ but he trusted in the Lord 
and took all the cheer he gave him. There was 


196 


DAVID STRONG’S DBBAND. 


a man who that moment was telling his dream 
to his fellow, and Gideon listened and heard it. 
It was a simple little dream about a cake of 
harley-hread tumbling into the host of Midian 
and overturning a tent, but his fellow interpreted 
the dream to him, telling him the barley-bread 
meant the sword of Gideon, and that God had 
given Midian into his hand. No wonder Gideon 
worshiped God when he heard that dream told. 
— What do you think of that, Sarah ? Did it 
happen that the man dreamed that dream and 
awoke at the very minute that Gideon was listen- 
ing to tell it ?” 

No,’’ said Sarah, seriously ; ‘‘ but, you see, 
those times needed such things.” 

‘‘And we don’t,” returned Miss Abby, dryly. 
“ God is just the same, if the times are not ; and 
he is just as kind to me as he was to Gideon. 
He let Mr. Johnson pass by just as my fire 
became too discouraging, and he knows how I 
don’t want to go to Caleb’s ; and I sha’n’t won- 
der at all if he considers my fears as truly as he 
did Gideon’s by telling him to take his servant 
with him. I’m sorry you lose so much blessed 
comfort, Sarah.” 

“ So am I,” returned Sarah. — “ Dixie, are you 
losing it, too ?” 

“No,” said Dixie. 

“We believe things,” said Nomie. — .“Miss 
Abby, aren’t there more such stories ?” 


PROVIDENCES. 


197 


“ I shouldn’t wonder. Suppose you look for 
some yourself?” 

I will, by and by. Mr. Meredith looks in 
the Bible to find things. He told Dixie last 
night that he was reading about how Jesus 
Christ loved his Father, and he wrote about it 
in his letter to his father.” 

‘‘ Abby, you have studied the Bible a great 
deal,” said Aunt Martin ; how did you ever 
find time?” 

The same way you have found time to piece 
quilts that you will never live to use.” 

I have read my chapter regularly,” replied . 
Aunt Martin, in an injured tone, “ and marked 
the minister’s texts in my Bible in church ; but 
I never felt called to take a class in Sunday- 
school.” 

‘Hf you had read the Bible till you were full 
of it, you would have had to take a class ; you 
couldn’t have got along without giving some of it 
away.” 

‘‘ But the quilts — ” 

Oh, I don’t mean anything about them. If 
you have made patchwork to the glory of God, I 
rejoice with you. I couldn’t, you see ; I wasn’t 
called.” 

‘‘You have done good to all the girls in the 
village, and to their mothers besides ; and I had 
almost said their grandmothers, too. Abby, I 
used to believe that people must have experience 


198 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and trouble if they expected to be blessed to peo- 
ple/’ said Aunt Martin, earnestly. 

Thomas h Kempis hadn’t, so far as I can 
learn,” replied Miss Abby ; and they say — 
somebody that is supposed to know : I saw it in 
print — that he wrote a book that has comforted 
weary folks next to the Bible itself. He lived 
almost all his long life of ninety years in a small 
convent ; he did not mingle in the world even so 
much as I have done, for I used to go all around 
tailoring in my young days, and I’ve made more 
than one suit for a boy to wear to college, and 
should have money saved up only I’ve had to 
spend it for the family. So it isn’t always trouble 
that is needed to make folks useful ; and if I have 
done any good, it isn’t trouble that is at the bot- 
tom of it. The Lord could have used trouble in 
my case, but he didn’t. And some folks have 
trouble and are not a blessing at all ; they are 
only a plague to their friends. Don’t make an 
idol of trouble, for it’s a flimsy thing if it isn’t 
blessed. If the sunshine takes us to the Lord, 
there will be no need of his sending darkness to 
frighten us nearer. — Bemember that, Dixie. But 
you have your troubles, child.” 

Not just this minute,” said Dixie. ‘‘ Nomie 
and I are very comfortable down here before the 
fire.” 

Mr. Shields just put his head in before he 
went away,” complained Aunt Martin, wearily ; 


PROVIDENCES. 


199 


‘‘ he always does look in to say ‘ Good-bye/ — 
Dixie, isn’t it getting dark ? Isn’t it time for 
him to come ? Will they have to draw ice to- 
morrow ?” 

^‘Yes; they will finish to-morrow. To-mor- 
row is Saturday, and I am glad such cold, freez- 
ing work will be over.” 

The shadow of the twilight was falling over 
their faces, Sarah’s work was finished and laid 
across her lap. Miss Abby’s fingers did not cease 
their rapid motion. She could knit in the dark 
as well as in the light ; with her knitting in her 
hands, how many hours she had bent over her 
big Bible ! Every night Aunt Martin had hastily 
read her “ chapter,” but Miss Abby often read 
an entire book at a sitting. 

They sat in silence a while — together, but how 
far apart! An ill-assorted group, one might 
think, judging from the expression of the faces; 
but they loved one another, and were dependent 
upon one another for companionship, at least. 
Even Sarah Harper, in her transition state from 
an old girl to a middle-aged woman, was an in- 
fluence. An old girl is as sad a thing to see as 
a churlish old woman. Sarah Harper was de- 
lighted to be classed among the village girls 
she had all the unbecomingness of being an old 
girl with never the beauty and happiness of being 
a young woman. 

I don’t want ever to grow like Sarah Harper,” 


200 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Dixie had sighed to herself that day. She de- 
termined to ask Miss Abby what was the matter 
with Sarah. 

The early twilight deepened, the fire was dying 
out, the faces were all in shadow, each face with 
its history and its prophecy. Miss Abby’s face 
was sallow and wrinkled, her brow high and 
square, bordered by the black-silk frill of her 
cap ; her cheeks were so thin as to seem to lie in 
deep yellow folds ; her small black eyes were 
sunken and dull, unless she was unusually ani- 
mated ; her nose and chin were long ; the pale 
line of her lips was nearly lost in a puckered 
hollow between nose and chin ; her voice was 
unsteady; and yet — ^will you believe it? — ^Miss 
Abby was lovely, and everybody said so. 

Sarah bent forward as she sat upon the foot 
of the bed, her hands clasping her knees, her 
eyes intent and intense as she peered into noth- 
ingness, the burden of her thoughts a not unusual 
one. Indeed, it had kept her awake last night : 

Where shall I go next ? What will become of 
me ?” Her wardrobe was scanty ; her purse held 
exactly one dollar and fifty-three cents. She 
could not, like old Abby, feel herself watched.’’ 
Aunt Martin’s pretty fair face, with wavy hair 
and white lace about it, lay pressed against the 
pillow with brooding discontent in the eyes. 
Was that what that Sarah Harper was plan- 
ning, to get Dixie away that she might take 


PROVIDENCES, 


201 


her place ? Ten Sarah Harpers could not fill 
Dixie’s place. Sarah would want a woman to 
wash and iron, and one to help in housecleaning- 
time and in killing season, and she would want 
company, and, above all, she would want 'money. 
And Dixie wanted nothing and complained of 
nothing ; there was no danger of her marrying, 
either, for who would be willing to take Naomi? 

Poor little Naomi, whom no one else would 
be willing to take, with her head upon Dixie’s 
shoulder, was thinking happy thoughts. What 
David’s father was to him Dixie was to her little 
sister — some one sent from God. 

The child’s face was pinched this winter, she 
was losing flesh, she slept fitfully, her appetite 
was capricious, and the pain — the dull pain — in 
her back was almost constant. Dixie shut her 
eyes to it, but, nevertheless, she saw. That she 
should ever lose Nomie she had never once 
thought. Nomie was everything to her — every- 
thing that was not God ; she was surely a part 
of his love. 

The expression of Nomie’s face was more 
matured than Dixie’s had been at fifteen ; in 
ten years, unless color and roundness came to 
it, she might be considered the elder sister. 
There was no pretty childishness about her face 
or her figure, or in her self-contained, prim 
manner : physical suffering and her indoor life 
had hindered the one, and constant intercourse 


202 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


with grown people had cultivated the other. Dixie 
could see and feel that her sister was not like 
other children, but oh, what could she do to 
make her a little child — a little foolish, willful 
child with naughty ways? If she might be 
among those merry little Prescotts, might she 
not become like them? Was thirteen too late? 

Nomie caught her breath as a sharp pain 
startled her into lifting her head; she did not 
like to tell Dixie that the doctor had laid his 
hand on her shoulder Christmas Day and told 
Aunt Martin that if anything were ever done for 
her it should be done at once. Aunt Martin was 
so worried that she must have forgotten to speak 
about it. 

What’s the matter, darling ?” asked Dixie. 

Nothing much ; I have been sitting too long 
in one position.” 

I should think you all had, by the way the 
room feels,” said Aunt Martin, sharply ; I am 
shivering here in bed. — Dixie, open that stove 
door. And what are you going to have for 
supper for those hungry men?” 

‘‘I’ll find something,” said Dixie. “I have 
the cellar, the milk-room and a big pantry at 
my command, to say nothing of your store- 
room, Aunt Martin.” 

“You may get some canned fruit to-night. 
Sarah likes good living; Abby, here, can live 
on her thoughts.” 


PROVIDENCES. 


203 


“ And not have such poor food, either,” re- 
turned Miss Abby. 

Tell us what you were thinking. Miss Abby, 
please,” pleaded Naomi. 

I was thinking that I do not want much in 
this world — only a little bit^of a corner to learn 
about God in and to do his will in.” 

“ I want more than a little bit of a corner,” 
said Sarah, slipping off the bed. 

‘‘ I don’t want to be willful and choose that 
corner ; if Caleb insists again, perhaps it will be 
right for me to break up my home. An old tree 
doesn’t thrive if it is uprooted, but it can’t be 
for very long. I’ve been praying, as I sat here 
in the dark, to be made willing to go, and I have 
asked forgiveness if I have held on to my natural 
feelings too much.” 

Miss Abby.” Dixie was making a blaze with 
dry chips. “ Perhaps I’ll think of something to 
help you stay.” 

‘‘Aunt Abby” — Sarah spoke very seriously — 
“perhaps I can’t have faith like yours; mine may 
be the measure dealt out to me.” 

“You wouldn’t take it so quietly,” said Miss 
Abby, with energy, “if it were a measure of 
gold : you would soon enough ask if that were 
all ; and if you could get more by asking, you 
would ask hard enough.” 

Aunt Martin laughed: 

“ I^w, Sarah, you are answered.” 


204 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


“ Dixie child/’ said Miss Abby as the light 
flamed over Dixie’s face, ‘‘work is better for you 
than sitting idle. You know we are bidden to 
take up our cross ‘daily,’ not every other day or 
once in a while.” 

“ Miss Abby, if you had read my thought, your 
reply could not have suited it better.” 

Nomie went to Miss Abby’s side and laid her 
cold little hand on the old shriveled one : 

“ Was your Thomas a Kempis any relation to 
my Thomas a Becket ?” 

“ I never heard of a Becket.” 

Schenck’s step was heard shuffling along the 
hall. 

“We don’t want him,” snapped Sarah. — “ Come 
in,” she returned, discouragingly, to his hesitating 
tap. 

“Some one to see Miss Dixie,” announced 
Schenck, solemnly. 

“ Who ?” demanded Aunt Martin. 

“ Mr. — Mr. — I forget his name ; he lives up 
the hill.” 

Nomie followed Dixie to the dining-room ; 
there, by the light of one candle and the blaze 
that came from the open stove door, they espied 
a tall figure in a handsome overcoat with a seal- 
skin collar, standing with a gloved hand upon the 
back of one of the rush-bottomed chairs. 

“Miss Dixie,” he said, in a pleasant voice, 
“you remember me?” 


PROVIDENCES. 


205 


“ Mr. Prescott/’ she said, admiring the dark, 
oval face, the gentlest brown eyes she had ever 
seen — they were even timid, like a girl’s eyes — 
the fine head and the piled-up black hair. 

Mrs. Prescott wishes very much to see you 
to-night, and asked me to come and give you a 
sleigh-ride. She is an invalid this cold weather, 
and cannot venture out. My man shall bring 
you back in an hour at the longest.” 

Dixie glanced toward the kitchen ; Schenck 
had heated the oven for her biscuits, and there 
were herrings to he cooked to-night. 

She remembers meeting you at your guard- 
ian’s when you were quite a little girl, and she 
saw you several times last summer with your sis- 
ter. She has taken a fancy to you, and I may as 
well tell you that her fancies amount to some- 
thing. She took a fancy to me once.” 

Schenck smiled, and said that it was very nice 
for somebody to take a fancy to you. 

‘‘I have taken a fancy to that new man of 
yours. Who is he ?” 

“ We don’t know,” said Schenck, moving 
nearer, with a confidential air, ‘‘but I’m sure 
he is somebody worth coming from somewhere.” 

“ There’s clear grit in his blue eyes ; I passed 
him to-day and photographed his face on my 
memory.” 

“ He minds the cold ; he feels it like — like an 
orange-blossom,” said Schenck, poetically. 


206 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Meanwhile, hearing not a word, Dixie was 
wondering if it would excite Aunt Martin too 
much if she should go. 

I’ll get supper,” said Schenck ; I brought 
the flour in for you, and I’d like to make the 
biscuits.” 

‘‘ You must be a genius,” exclaimed Mr. Pres- 
cott, turning to him with a smile. 

“ He has a genius for being kind,” said Dixie, 
gratefully. 

“ Put on your brown dress,” advised Schenck, 
in a tone intended for a whisper, and don’t feel 
in a hurry.” 


XI. 

A Temptation. 


SLENDER girl with hair almost light 



enough to be denominated flaxen, with 
small brown eyes and a quick step, arrayed 
becomingly in a white cap, with a white apron 
touching the bottom of her dress, ran up the 
broad stairway leading the way. Dixie had 
seen her in church in Miss Abby’s pew, and 
had admired her because she was so unlike 
herself. Miss Abby had given her the girl’s 
history : she was a dressmaker, but, under the 
pressure of constant work and confinement, had 
lost her strength ; she had advertised for light 
work and a home in the country, and Mrs. Pres- 
cott, eighteen months since, had answered the 
advertisement. Her relatives were poor, living 
in the city; she had no one besides herself to 
depend upon. Like Sarah Harper, she was now 
wondering what would become of her ; her health 
was established, and she had a strong desire to 
return to her own occupation ; she delighted in 
the pretty work of her own hands, and she did 


207 


208 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND. 


not delight in the ‘‘light work’’ of the Prescott 
household. 

The hall into which Dixie was ushered was a 
large apartment with the staircase winding into 
it; to her eyes, it seemed one blaze of light. 
The colors of the soft carpet dazzled her ; the 
warm air and the perfume of unseen flowers 
were about her as in summer-time, and yet the 
snow was beginning to fall outside. The swing- 
ing open of that door had brought her into 
another climate. She slowly followed her guide 
up the soft, bright-carpeted stairs; the light 
streamed above as well as below ; doors were 
thrown open everywhere, and there were 
glimpses of pink and white and crimson in 
curtains and carpets and chairs; the sound of 
music and of tripping feet came from a room 
below, and then a gush of laughter. Was Aunt 
Martin’s house on the same earth with this 
house? Was it possible that Nomie might live 
in a home like this? Might she breathe this 
warm air and never shiver and never cough at 
night because the room was cold? 

“ Mrs. Prescott,” said Anna, pausing in a door- 
way, “ Miss Dixie has come.” 

Languidly rising from the depth of a blue 
plush arm-chair, the lady with golden hair 
stepped toward Dixie. She would not have 
more prettily received the lady of the White 
House. All her friends declared that Isabel 


A TEMPTATION. 


209 


Prescott was charming, but none of them felt 
it as Dixie did in that first embarrassed moment. 

‘‘Miss Dixie, you are very good to come to 
me. And it is snowing, too. Paul always gets 
me everything I cry for, and now he has brought 
you to me. — Anna, wheel a chair nearer mine.’’ 

The suddenness and the novelty of it all bewil- 
dered Dixie and fettered her tongue ; she seated 
herself with a film before her eyes, saying sim- 
ply, “ Thank you.” 

Anna disappeared. Mrs. Prescott, with a 
slight air of fatigue, made herself comfortable 
in her plush chair, and then, turning to Dixie, 
spoke with great vivacity. The light from above 
fell over her golden head and her gray dress; 
the undisguised admiration in Dixie’s eyes was 
very touching. 

Dixie had seen such old faces to-day ! Was it 
only to-day that she was sitting in the twilight 
looking at those old faces? Still, there was 
something — something lovely — in Miss Abby’s 
face that she in vain sought for in the beauty 
that was now bewitching her. The outlines of 
Mrs. Prescott’s cheeks and of her chin were like 
those of a child ; she wished Nomie might look 
like that. 

“I ought to apologize for sending for you,” 
said the lady, “ but you are your own excuse for 
my desiring to see you. You cannot remove 
your hat and shawl?” 

14 


210 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘No, tKank you; Mr. Prescott promised to 
send me home in an hour.” 

“They cannot spare you for a longer time 
than that? And I want you for always!” 

“You do not know me,” said Dixie, simply. 

“ I think I do ; I can read faces. Besides, I 
know some one who does know you : Mrs. John- 
son is eloquent concerning your wrongs.” 

“I have no wrongs,” said Dixie, flushing; 
“ the wrongs are my little sister’s. I would be 
satisfied for myself to stay with Aunt Martin as 
long as she needs me, but it is killing my little 
sister.” 

“ Mrs. Johnson said that too.” 

“ Did she ? Do people know it ? Is it true ?” 
Dixie sprang to her feet, then dropped back into 
her chair again. 

“ It is certainly true that your sister needs a 
change and care and medical advice; she shall 
have all with me.” 

Dixie covered her face and burst into weeping. 
Was the blessing at last coming to Nomie? 
Might she grow straight and like other chil- 
dren ? 

“Oh,” moaned Dixie, “my heart will break 
with gladness.” 

“No, it will not; it will sing and be joyful. 
You do not remember me, but I well remember 
you; I remember your yellow heads and your 
black dresses. * I spent a night at your guardian’s 


A TB3IPTATI0N. 


211 


on my way through the city to Washington ; I 
saw you both at the breakfast- table. Your sister 
did not look then as she looks now, poor little 
thing ! I asked for you the next year, after 
Uncle Stephen died, but they said an old aunt 
had taken you into the country. It was very 
sad about your property. Uncle Stephen did 
not mean to wrong any one — had he lived ; but 
it is dreadful for you. He had some of mine at 
one time, but mother did not trust him with it 
long. Last summer I saw you many times ; once 
you were hanging up clothes, and once you and 
your sister were picking wild blackberries, and 
I heard her call you ‘ Dixie !’ and when you 
turned, I recognized your eyes. I have told 
Paul all summer that I must have you, but 
Anna has been satisfied to stay, and the air 
was good for her ; now she wishes to return to 
her dressmaking : she thinks her position in my 
house not quite dignified enough. But you will 
not think so, will you ?’’ 

Dixie smiled. What was her position at Aunt 
Martin’s ? 

will do the meanest work, I will do the 
hardest; I will do anything — I will do every- 
thing — if you will have Nomie cured,” cried 
Dixie, vehemently, springing to her feet. “I 
will work all my life to have her cured. Do 
not think about any money ; we can get along 
without money. She needs shelter and nourish- 


212 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


ing food ; she cannot relish our plain fare. She 
looks pinched and starved, but she isn’t; we 
have good food for well people, but she has no 
appetite. A healthy little girl like Khoda John- 
son would grow strong with our way of life. It 
isn’t anybody’s fault : they are all kind to us ; 
but Nomie needs something different. I am 
strong and well ; there is nothing too hard for 
me, but she must be taken care of.” 

We will arrange about wages when we see 
how much has to be done for Nomie. You are 
your own, I presume ; you can leave any time ?” 

I am not my own, I am Nomie’s.” 

“Then you will surely come soon? I want 
you for my housekeeper. I keep a cook, and a 
second girl besides; you will have the care of 
them. And I want you for a nurse and maid 
for myself and for the children. You can teach 
the children to read and write, I suppose ?” 

“ I have taught Nomie.” 

“ I shall have a governess for them some time ; 
the twins, Floy and Fan, are five,> Paul is three, 
and the baby can only creep. Those children 
down stairs are visitors come for the holidays. 
Is this too much work for you?” 

“ Nothing is too much work for me.” 

“And Nomie — is that her name? — can amuse 
the children.” 

“ But she cannot lift them,” said Dixie, firmly ; 
“ I do not let her lift anything.” 


A TEMPTATION. 


213 


You will take care of that ; you will have 
the care of her, as of everything else. I do not 
want to have any care. If I go to Saratoga next 
summer, I shall expect to leave you here with 
the children; or, if I take them, I shall take 
you.” 

And Nomie ?” added Dixie, quickly. 

“ Yes, and Nomie,” said Mrs. Prescott, smil- 
ing. ‘‘ I will be very kind to you both. Anna 
has had a happy home with me. Ask her if 
she has not.” 

Oh, Mrs. Prescott ” — Dixie was sobbing again 
— ‘‘ I never thought of anything so wonderful. 
May I have salt and water to bathe Nomie’s 
back ? We have no fire at home in our cham- 
ber, and there’s no other place to bathe her in 
winter-time.” 

Come with me.” 

Dixie followed her across the hall. Mrs. Pres- 
cott passed through one of the open doorways : 

“ This will be your sleeping-room.” 

This? It was something like their room at 
their guardian’s — a white bed with high white 
ruffled pillows; all the hangings were of pale 
blue — Dixie’s favorite shade of blue ; the carpet 
was gray covered over with forget-me-nots ; for- 
get-me-nots were scattered over the gray walls. 
The room was a bower of beauty, and, above all, 
it was warm. Nomie would never awaken her in 
the night with Oh, Dix, my back is so cold !” 


214 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


“ Now, when will you come inquired Mrs. 
Prescott. 

The fragile little lady leaned against the foot- 
board and looked up at Dixie. What would she 
not have given to be strong like Dixie? Would 
she be willing to take Dixie’s place in Aunt Mar- 
tin’s kitchen ? Had it not been for giving up 
husband and children, she was positive she would 
have been willing. But I am not sure : she was 
cradled in love, and there was not much of that 
in Aunt Martin’s kitchen. 

“ I wish I could go back for Nomie and stay 
to-night,” answered Dixie, smiling, “but that 
would not be honorable. Aunt Martin may be 
so excited that Uncle Martin may forbid me to 
come. But I am of age, and we have not cost 
them anything that I have not fully repaid. 
There is Schenck.” 

“ ‘ Schenck ’ ! Is he foolish ?” 

“ ‘ Foolish ’ !” repeated Dixie, indignantly. 
“He is the best friend we have, next to Miss 
Abby.” 

“ I beg your pardon ; perhaps he is only slow- 
witted ?” 

“He isn’t slow-hearted, then. Mr. Meredith 
is our friend, too ; I can’t help feeling that he is 
on our side.” 

“ Mr. Meredith is the man Paul wants to put 
into a book.” 

“ He can’t,” said Dixie ; “ he is too good.” 


A TmiFTATIOK 


215 


“ I hope Mr. Prescott will write about good 
men some day.’’ 

Oh, I wish he would now,” exclaimed Dixie, 
fervently. Will you beg him ? Gilbert read 
his books before he ran away. Their very titles 
show what they are. I looked at one — I wanted 
to talk to Gilbert about it — and I found three 
murders in two chapters. He looks so gentle ; 
how can he think of such things? I shouldn’t 
think you would like to use that kind of money. 
I wouldn’t. I should think he would rather be 
like David Meredith and work on somebody’s 
farm for his board.” 

Mrs. Prescott was steadying herself by leaning 
with both hands on the back of a chair. At first 
she could not trust herself to speak ; her lips 
were like ashes; even her fingers were trem- 
bling. How little this girl knew her secret 
shame and her secret sorrow ! How little she 
knew the eagerness with which she looked 
through his stories to find some good in them ! 
How little she could understand her intense de- 
sire that by healthy books for boys his ready pen 
might undo all the harm of these past years ! 
Perhaps, when he grew older — he was not very 
old now — he might do good instead of doing evil 
in the world. Perhaps he might begin to do it 
before the children grew up to understand. 

“ Oh, forgive me,” cried Dixie, in alarm ; I 
forgot. I was thinking of Gilbert and of other 


216 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


boys, and our own life seems clean and sweet 
when I think that we eat of the labor of our 
hands that God has blessed/’ 

‘‘I understand you, dear. He promised me 
before we were married, but he has no other way 
of giving me luxuries. We do not own this 
house; we rent it furnished. We are not rich; 
my money was soon spent. Paul will not stay 
long in one place; we shall go somewhere else in 
the spring. But come with me ; I will keep you 
and your little sister. You do not know how I 
want you near me. I am not strong; I need 
you.” 

I am so sorry !” said Dixie, pityingly. “ I 
don’t see how you live; I should think you 
would rather be like me.” 

But I cannot be like you ; I never was like 
you. I am more of a baby than Floy or Fan. 
But I have made bread and worked in the 
kitchen when the cook was gone and we had 
no money to pay another. When we leave this 
large and fine place, we may go into a few rooms 
somewhere for a little while, but you shall surely 
be taken care of.” 

^Hf I could come until spring — until Nomie 
could be cured — ” 

‘‘Yes; do come and stay as long as that.” 

“ I thought I had found such a home for No- 
mie!” sighed Dixie. “But there’s nothing sure 
about it.” 


A TEMPTATION. 


217 


No ; there’s nothing sure about it,” repeated 
the little lady, with her lips still colorless. 

“ I am so sorry for you !” said Dixie, again. 
‘‘I wish I could help you bear it.” 

“You can help me by coming.” 

“ All the happiness seems to he going out of 
it ; I do not believe this home would be blessed 
to Nomie.” 

“You are very old-fashioned,” said Mrs. Pres- 
cott, with irritation. 

“ Almost as old-fashioned as Miss Abby her- 
self. I’m afraid I can’t pray about it.” 

“ Do you have to pray about it ?” inquired 
Mrs. Prescott, curiously. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, Dixie,” she cried, impulsively, “ I want 
you to come.” 

“ I want to come, too. But if this way is shut 
up, there will be another opened ; I don’t believe 
that God let me come here to-night just to show 
me what he isn’t willing to give me. I don’t 
want your beautiful home even for Nomie; I 
want only the warmth and the food and the way 
of taking care of her, and I could have that at 
Aunt Martin’s if I had even a little money. 
Perhaps the doctor will tell me how I can help 
her,” said the girl, musingly. 

“ Then you will not come to me ?” 

“ I cannot decide to-night.” 

“Anna will stay two weeks longer; I must 


218 


DAVID STRONG EBBAND. 


know in a week, that I may find some one else 
if you do not come. But I don’t want any one 
but you.” 

I wish you could have me, then. But I do 
not know the ways of your house ; I should have 
to learn.” 

I would trust you for that. I am glad I have 
seen you, and that we have had this talk. I wish 
I were like you ; I would be a better wife to Paul 
if I were as strong as you are. You do not know 
how near you seem to me already ; I never in my 
life had a friend who talked and felt as you do. 
Is it because you go to church ? We never go to 
church.” 

‘‘ I am so sorry !” Dixie said, again. But you 
would let us go?” 

‘‘ Oh yes ; the carriage shall take you.” 

As they passed through the hall Mrs. Prescott 
looked over the balusters and motioned to Anna, 
who was playing with the baby on the stairs, say- 
ing something in a low tone that Dixie did not 
hear. In a few moments another girl entered 
the room, bearing a tray, on which was placed a 
glass of wine. 

Take a glass of wine, Dixie,” said Mrs. Pres- 
cott; ‘‘it is cold outside, and it will warm you 
up.” 

“No, I can’t; thank you,” refused Dixie, 
shrinking. “ I never drank a glass of wine in 
my life.” 


A TEMPTATION. 


219 


Take it away, Mary,’’ Mrs. Prescott ordered, 
sharply. 

As the girl left the room, Dixie said, 

‘‘ Please excuse me, Mrs. Prescott.” 

I might have known you wouldn’t ; people 
like you never do.” 

Mrs. Prescott stepped to the stairway and 
spoke to Anna. 

Thank you for sending for me,” said Dixie. 

‘‘ You think your hour is up and you are out 
of prison ?” returned Mrs. Prescott, sadly. ‘‘ If 
I had been a girl like you, I might have married 
a man like your hired man, and we might have 
been happy, with nothing on our minds. I’m 
afraid I have made myself a thing to be petted.” 

‘‘ I wouldn’t mind the petting,” said Dixie. 
will send you word in a week.” 

That sounds hopeful. Good-night.” 

Anna met Dixie on the stairway with a paper 
bag containing a dozen oranges for Nomie : 

‘‘Mrs. Prescott said they were for your little 
sister.” 

“Thank her very much. Isn’t she lovely?” 

“ She’s always as kind as you see her to-night, 
and so is he.” 

As Anna opened the door for her she whis- 
pered : 

“ But you will not like it : they have dinner- 
parties on Sundays, and Mr. Prescott drinks too 
much. I have not been paid a cent for seven 


220 


DAVID STRONG'S ERRAND. 


months, and I am only staying on in hope of 
getting it. She will get it for me if she can. 
We have a new cook every month, and the 
second girl came yesterday, and the coachman 
threatens to sue him, and the butcher will not 
trust him any more. I am sorry to tell this to 
you if she wants you, hut you are Miss Abhy’s 
friend, and I want to warn you.” 

Dixie said Thank you” and hurried out with 
her precious bag for Nomie. Now she could eat 
three oranges at one time if she wanted to. 

The wind blew the snow furiously into Dixie’s 
face, and it was very dark. What a world of 
light she had left ! And what a world of dark- 
ness ! How good would the bread that was paid 
for taste that night ! She would not mind the 
dingy sitting-room with its one candle, or the 
kitchen with the odor of herring. 

Truth and goodness were the real luxuries of 
life, after all. It was Aunt Martin’s farm, and 
she was true and good. She need not think 
about Uncle Martin. God had brought her to 
Aunt Martin ; how could she be sure that he was 
sending her away from her? But there was 
Nomie ! 


XII. 

Some Younger Brothers. 

A fter supper David stood by the kitchen 
fire shivering: the cold seemed to be ting- 
ling through his very bones. He almost brought 
himself into a physical glow by the scolding he 
gave himself. How weak and girlish he was! 
His father must be ashamed of him. If his 
errand should prove a failure through his own 
weakness, what a disappointment he would bring 
to his father I What a sorry hero he was, to 
care about the rise and the fall of mercury ! He 
had not worked well, and Martin had told him 
that he must do better to-morrow ; he had ridi- 
culed his dread of the cold, and had bidden him 
work faster and keep warmer ; but that was not 
easy, with that catch of the old twinge in his 
breast. More than once or twice he had set his 
teeth together that day in the effort to keep back 
a groan. Must he grieve his father with the 
history of to-day? Keeping that promise was 
the hardest part of his discipline. 

‘‘Mr. Meredith, you look blue,” exclaimed 
Schenck; “move away and let me put some 

221 


222 


DAVTD STRONG’S ERRAND. 


wood in. I’m bound to get you warm some 
way. A man who works for what is thrown 
to him ought not to freeze to death. You shall 
have a howl of hot ginger-tea at bedtime, and 
two hot billets of wood to put into bed: they 
keep warm longer than bricks. It is fifteen 
degrees warmer than it was at noon. We do 
have the queerest climate ! There’ll be no ice- 
getting to-morrow. You may see bare ground 
before two weeks, even if it is snowing to-night : 
this snow may turn to rain. I make a study of 
the weather; I don’t have much else to do. 
Some folks” — he straightened himself and put 
his hand to his back — “ have settled work, but I 
seem to have to do anything and everything that 
turns up. I sometimes wonder how Joseph and 
Nehemiah and Paul felt with their grand work.” 

Discouraged sometimes,” said David. 

They had reason to be, once in a while. — 
Didn’t they. Miss Abby ?” asked Schenck. 

“ More than we ever had, I reckon,” answered 
the old lady. She had come into the kitchen to 
light a candle with a piece of twisted paper, so 
that she might save a match. 

I picked up this envelope, Mr. Meredith, and 
and Cousin Martin says it is yours. He studied 
the handwriting a long time, because that D is 
like the one his father used to make ; he thought 
nobody else knew how. He said it was the writ- 
ing of an old man.” 


SOME YOUNGER BROTHERS. 


223 


“ My father is an old man/’ said David, ten- 
derly. ‘^As soon as I am thoroughly warm I 
must write to him.” 

“You keep that up pretty constant,” said 
Schenck, taking the candlestick from the old 
lady’s hand. 

Naomi came to the fire with an orange in her 
hand ; she stood at the young man’s side looking 
up at him. 

“ You are very grave,” she said. 

“ Yes, I am grave,” he responded. 

“Are you homesick?” she asked. 

What a boy David was, that the tears should 
rush to his eyes ! 

“ I believe I must confess it — ^to-night.” 

“ Do you want to see somebody ?” 

“ I want to see my father.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Nomie. “Won’t you eat 
one of my oranges ?” 

“ That would make me more homesick still,” 
he said. 

“ Is your father wonderful ?” 

“ Most wonderful.” 

“ What is the most wonderful thing about 
him ?” 

“His unselfishness.” 

“ Then he is like Dix,” returned Nomie. 

“ Just think how you would want to see Dixie 
to-night if you were hundreds of miles away 
from her.” 


224 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


But you are a boy — a big boy, a man.’’ 

‘'I wish I could feel so. I am not a very 
brave one.” 

Perhaps you are all the braver because you 
don’t feel so,” said Miss Abby, taking her lighted 
candle. ‘‘ I shouldn’t wonder if Joseph wanted 
to see his father pretty bad.” 

“ When he was in prison,” said Nomie, and 
he got into all that trouble because his father 
sent him to see how his brothers were getting 
along. I think he loved his father.” 

And David got into the trouble of fighting 
Goliath by obeying his father and going to see 
his brothers and taking them something,” said 
Miss Abby. What a wonderful history is the 
story of those younger brothers ! How one man 
has been started out to do wonders !” 

Oh, Miss Abby,” cried Naomi, ‘‘ your voice 
sounds as though you knew some more. Please 
blow out your candle and sit down.” 

Schenck bent over and blew out her candle, 
and David brought her a wooden-bottomed 
chair. 

have just thought of it,” began Miss Abby; 
and how her dear old eyes brightened ! ‘‘ God 

sends a man to do some great thing, and the 
first thing he seems to do is to hedge up his 
way. Now, there was Moses. It came into his 
heart to visit his brethren the children of Israel ; 
he supposed they would have understood how 


SOME YOUNGER BROTHERS. 


225 


that God by his hand would deliver them, but 
they understood not, and he had to flee into the 
land of Midian, and to stay there forty years 
before he could begin to deliver them. That 
was discouraging. And then, when God sent 
him — ^really sent him — and he knew, without 
supposing, that he was sent, and he started to 
go, it came to pass by the way in the inn that 
the Lord met him and sought to kill him. He 
was away from home — ^in the inn, too — and that 
must have seemed rather hard.” 

He was the youngest son, too,” cried Nomie, 
delightedly. ‘‘ I think it is so good for the 
youngest to have things to do.” 

“And to go on farther, to David’s times, what 
troubles he did have, to be sure, after he was 
anointed king ! It seems as if his hard times, 
instead of his good times, began with that 
anointing — just as nowadays sometimes great 
duties bring hardship and suffering.” 

David’s blue eyes glowed with a light that 
had not before shone in them ; he shaded them 
with his hand and turned his head away from 
Miss Abby as she went on: 

“He — ^the anointed king of God’s people — 
said in his heart, H shall now perish one day 
by the hand of Saul.’ And after Saul died and 
we should think David had a right to be king, 
there was long war between the house of David 
and the house of Saul. It was seven years after 

15 


226 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND. 


he first began to reign before all the tribes would 
acknowledge him king. God’s errands do mean 
waiting and hard work, and no mistake. He is 
doing his will as well as we are, so waiting and 
hard work don’t matter. Or, rather, they do, 
because it is what he wants. God was king 
over all the people all that time that David 
wasn’t, so we don’t have anything to worry 
about ; and his kingdom is the hearts of men : 
he turns them about so easy ! I tell Sylvie that 
when she worries over her prayers for her hus- 
band. It’s a great drag on a woman to have a 
husband that she has to wrestle for, but that 
hasn’t any point here, exactly.” 

Yes, it has,” said Schenck, quickly, ‘^because 
Mr. Meredith will try not to be that kind of a 
man.” 

‘‘ I wish Dixie might hear this about waiting 
and hard work,” said Naomi, “ but she’s rubbing 
Aunt Martin’s back because she sat up in bed too 
long.” 

“Dixie knows some of it,” returned Miss 
Abby; “she knows a deal that she doesn’t 
talk about.” 

“Miss Abby, you are talking to m^,” said 
David. 

“Am I? I am real glad. I had a notion 
that you were understanding some things about 
it that we don’t.” 

“ But that isn’t all,” said Nomie. 


SOME YOUNGER BROTHERS. 


227 


“All before we have gotten to Paul? No, in- 
deed ! I can find something in Paul that fits into 
most anything. Wasn’t Paul left two years in 
prison when he was all ready to go to work? 
Just think what a bondage that was for a man 
like Paul. What a big piece it took out of his 
zealous doings !” 

“ I don’t believe he fretted,” commented 
Schenck. 

“ No : he loved the Father of our Lord Jesus 
Christ too much. How often he speaks of God 
as the ‘Father of our Lord Jesus Christ’! We 
don’t think enough of God as the Father of 
Jesus; we think of him as our Father, but we 
lose the grandest view of him if we overlook that.” 

“And we lose some of the greatness of the Son 
if we do not think of him as his Father’s Son as 
well as our Saviour. I believe I have thought 
of him of late more as his Father’s Son than in 
his relation to his world,” said David. 

Miss Abby looked pleased ; here was somebody 
after her own heart — somebody who “ thought ” 
of Him who was her only thought. 

“/’6^ tell him,” persuaded Joe’s voice, in the 
dining-room. 

“ I don’t want to,” said Jesse. 

“ It’s mean not to,” said J oe. 

“I’ll mail it to-morrow, the first thing, and 
he’ll never know.” 


228 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND. 


“ But it won’t be in time ; it has lost one 
mail.” 

Then it can’t matter now ; he can’t mail it 
to-night.” 

Oh, it’s your letter,” cried Nomie — the one 
you so much wanted to go ; and now your father 
will not have it in time.” 

The dining-room door stood ajar. 

“Did you forget to mail my letter, Jesse?” 
David called out. 

“Yes, I did” 

“ It must go to-night, then,” in a determined 
tone. 

“ I can’t take it ; father won’t let me. And it’s 
dark, and it snows,” replied Jesse. 

Almost with a hound David was in the dining- 
room. 

“A boy that can’t be trusted with an important 
letter isn’t worth much,” he said, angrily ; “ you 
ought to be ashamed of yourself.” - 

“And he spent the money you gave him, too,” 
said Joe. 

“ Don’t you be a tell-tale, Joe,” said David. — 
“Jesse, ask your father if he will oblige me with 
a horse ; the letter has lost one mail, and it must 
go the next.” 

Jesse hesitated : 

“ It’s no use ; he won’t let you have a horse. 
He never let Gilbert.” 


SOME YOUNGER BROTHERS. 


229 


‘‘ Oblige me by asking, please/’ 

‘‘ Ask him yourself,” returned Joe, roughly. 

I cannot go into your mother’s room.” 

‘‘ I’ll go,” volunteered Joe, who liked to make 
a sensation. 

David was buttoning his overcoat when the 
messenger returned : 

I told him you paid Jesse to mail it and he 
had forgotten it, and you said it must go to-night 
and you wanted a horse ; and he said letters were 
all fol-de-rol, and his horses had had enough to 
do to-day and they shouldn’t go out in a storm.” 

‘‘As I haven’t had enough to do to-day, I 
suppose I can go out in a storm. — Mr. Savage, 
may I have a lantern?” 

“Our lantern isn’t worth much,” said Joe. 
“ It isn’t a lamp : it is a candle-lantern ; and 
it blows out soon. Mr. Johnson has a kerosene- 
lantern that is splendid.” 

“ It isn’t splendid for me. — Jesse, where is the 
letter ?” 

Jesse found it in his jacket-pocket. 

“ My father will not like the odor of tobacco,” 
said David, “but I haven’t time to change the 
envelope.” 

“Your father mustn’t be so particular,” said 
Jesse. “ I’d go with you, Meredith, but father 
won’t let me; you don’t know the way.” 

“ Yes, I do ; I can find it. Take the first turn 
to the right and go on.” 


230 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘It’s a long way on a dark night/’ said 
Schenck, in his timid voice, carefully closing the 
lantern. “ Put some matches in your pocket, 
Mr. Meredith; it will try your patience blow- 
ing out.” 

“Mr. Meredith, must it go to-night?” asked 
Miss Abby. “I know you will get lost. You 
will take the wrong turn coming home, I’m 
sure.” 

“ I have all night to get home in,” said David, 
lightly. 

“See you don’t take all night,” advised 
Schenck. “I’ll have your ginger hot for you.” 

David opened the door. The wind blew 
sharply against his face; the snow was falling, 
and it was thick darkness. 

“ Good-bye,” Nomie called after him. 

Schenck went to the window to watch the 
light of the lantern, but it disappeared before 
David could have reached the gate. 

“ There ! it is out. I knew it. What a walk 
he will have! I wonder if he will remember 
about the bridge ? I suppose he’ll get on better 
on his feet than on a horse. — Jesse, he was very 
good not to be angry with you.” 

“He was angry,” said Jesse. “Didn’t I see 
his eyes? They ’most burnt me.’’ 

“ I wish they had,” cried Naomi, indignantly. 
“ You are a bad, mean boy.” 

“ It doesn’t hurt you any,” retorted Joe. 


SOME YOUNGER BROTHERS. 


231 


‘‘ Yes, it does,” said Nomie ; and it will hurt 
Dixie, too.” 

“He’s only going to stay a week, anyhow,” 
said Jesse ; “ father says he isn’t worth his salt.” 

“ Dixie says he is a gentleman.” 

“Perhaps gentlemen don’t earn their salt, 
then,” said Joe, laughing heartily. 

“ He was a gentleman to-night,” said Schenck. 
“ I shall feel anxious every minute until he gets 
hack.” 

Schenck let the pumps off, shut the damper 
of the kitchen stove and blew out the kitchen 
candle; but in his anxious thought for David 
he forgot something that he had never forgotten 
before : he forgot to bar the outside door of the 
shed. 


XIII. 


Fkom Nine till Eleven. 

I T was nine o’clock, and David had not re- 
turned. For the last hour Schenck had 
vacillated between the lounge and the window 
that looked down the road, and had, wearied and 
worried, dropped down upon the lounge and 
fallen asleep. The boys had tickled him to stop 
his snoring, and were uproariously laughing at 
the queer faces he made, when their father 
opened the door and commanded them to bed ; 
they had tumbled up the kitchen stairs stifling 
their laughter, and then had been silenced by a 
moan, or a groan, or something like a cry of 
agony that seemed to issue from the store-room. 

‘‘What is it?” asked Joe as he shut the door 
of his own chamber. “ What did it sound like ?” 

“ It wasn’t anything,” said Jesse, boldly ; “you 
pushed against me, or I shouldn’t have run.” 

“ Let’s go and see, then,” proposed Joe. 

“We can’t see in the dark, and mother won’t 
let us take a light into that room,” returned Jesse, 
suddenly grown obedient. 

“ I’ll look in the morning if I don’t forget,” 

232 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


233 


said Joe. ‘‘ Do you know I believe that fellow 
is lost or stumbled into the brook, or something? 
He wouldn’t stay and talk at the store.” 

“He’s old enough to take care of himself,” 
grumbled Jesse. “ I don’t see what he wanted 
to go for to-night, any way ; his father will live 
through it, if he doesn’t get a letter every day.” 

“ I suppose he couldn’t have got up in time to 
go in the morning? I say, Jess: you ought to 
give him that quarter back.” 

“ Where shall I get it from ?” 

“ Do you suppose poor old Gil is out to-night 
in the storm ?” asked Joe. 

“Why should he be out?” asked Jesse, sharp- 
ly. His heart had been sore for his brother all 
the evening. 

“ That groan made me think of him.” 

“ He wouldn’t come groaning around ; he’d 
come in,” said Jesse. “He needn’t be afraid of 
father, if he only knew it.” 

“ It may be fun to run away, but it’s better fun 
to stay home,” remarked Joe, philosophically. “I 
promised Dix to-night I wouldn’t read those 
books Hal Johnson lent me.” 

“So did I, because she talked about Frank; 
and she had tears in her eyes. Do you suppose 
we can earn that money to give it back to-mor- 
row? I feel awful sheepish about it.” 

“ So do I — worse than sheepish. But what can 
we do ?” asked Joe. 


234 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Hire out/’ said Jesse. 

“We’d better hire out at home. We are not 
big enough, either, to get much more than our 
board.” 

They fell asleep considering ways and means, 
and both dreamed of “poor old Gil.” 

Sarah had taken her candle and said “ Good- 
night” early in the evening. “ There is nothing 
like sleep to keep one’s good looks” was one of 
her maxims. Nomie had strained her eyes over 
her history until Dixie had called to her to come 
to the fire and to put her head in her lap and get 
warm before going up stairs. Miss Abby was 
toasting her feet in the gray- wool stockings Sal- 
lie had knit, with her hands in her lap and her 
eyes on the stove. 

“ I wish I was cultivated,” said Dixie. 

“You are,” declared Naomi; “Mr. Meredith 
said so. And doesn’t he know? He said he 
noticed that you pronounced correctly, and not 
many people do.” 

“ Mrs. Prescott does,” said Dixie. 

“Has that call made you dissatisfied?” in- 
quired Miss Abby. 

“ No ; it couldn’t. Everything I want I can 
have apart from that home. This home feels 
safe to-night, as if it were built upon a founda- 
tion of honesty and respectability; I am too 
proud to live in her style. Oh, Miss Abby, how 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


235 


stupid IVe been ! IVe found your manna for 
you/’ 

‘‘ What is it cried Naomi. 

But the old lady quietly waited. 

‘‘It is that girl Anna. She is in your class. 
Isn’t she pretty and ladylike? And she likes 
you very much.” 

“ Anna — manna,” said Nomie. “ But what is 
the rest?” 

“ She is a dressmaker, and came into the 
country with Mrs. Prescott because she was 
overworked, and now she is ready for work 
again. She does not like the city and wishes 
she could stay in the country. Now, I have 
a plan : since Louisa Fenwick was married, we 
have had no dressmaker in the village ; Anna 
shall stay and be our village dressmaker, and 
board with you. Miss Abby. Isn’t that delight- 
ful ? She can pay just enough not to cost you 
anything, and be with you at night when she 
goes to the houses, and perhaps bring some of 
her work home. You have a nice room for her. 
You can introduce her to people; everybody 
knows you. It will be just the home for her, 
and you needn’t go to your brother’s, after all. 
Isn’t it just the plan. Miss Abby ? Don’t you 
think she is your manna?” 

“ It looks like it — it certainly does,” said Miss 
Abby, spreading her bony hands over the top of 
the stove. “ My heart has been going out in a 


236 


DAVID STRONG'S ERRAND. 


strange way over that girl ; I cried that night 
that I knew she was going away. It may be a 
providence.’’ 

I wanted some good to come of my going 
there to-night. I felt depressed when I came 
home, and regretted that I went ; but now I am 
very glad. It was for you, and not for Nomie 
and me.” 

I hope it was,” said Miss Abby. “ But I 
have felt unsettled ever since Sallie died, and 
now it seems almost wrong for me to be com- 
fortable again.” 

“What a thing to say!” cried Dixie. “When 
I have everything I want for Nomie, I shall be 
so thankful that I shall not feel wicked a bit. 
Perhaps I can learn dressmaking with her, so 
that I can earn something.” 

“When would you have time?” asked Nomie. 

“Well, we will not think of it,” said Dixie, 
comfortingly ; “ we will have as good a time as 
we can, and leave that.” 

“ Leave it where ?” questioned the child. 

“ Don’t you know ?” asked Dixie, softly. 

“ Perhaps it is — perhaps it is,” repeated Miss 
Abby ; “ perhaps it is the answer to my prayer.” 

“And do be comfortable if it is,” pleaded 
Dixie; “perhaps you will have something else 
to trouble you, if you must be troubled. But 
that doesn’t sound like you.” 

“It sounds like Little-faith, doesn’t it? I 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


237 


don’t know what made me say it. We don’t 
need God near to comfort us always, but I am 
so used to being comforted that I don’t want to 
miss it ; I have depended so on him since I’ve 
been alone that I don’t know how to get along 
without it.” 

‘‘ Will you have to ?” said Dixie. I have so 
many reasons for depending that when one is 
taken away I’m sure of having another.” 

“ I had a dream last night. I do not usually 
tell my dreams, but this is worth telling, and 
worth remembering. I found myself upon the 
roof of a tower — a narrow, sloping roof — and I 
lay there holding on with both hands. There was 
nothing to support my feet ; they seemed to be 
on the edge, hanging over. I can feel now how 
I held on with my hands. It was the tallest 
thing, not only in the world, but almost in the 
universe ; as I looked over I saw the ocean 
spread out, and the continents were dots like 
islands.” 

Oh dear !” exclaimed Naomi, nervously, 
head appeared over the edge; I looked 
down at it and asked, ‘If I should put my 
arms around your neck, could you lift me 
down?’ A voice answered, ‘I think I could.’ 
Then I pondered, and I knew there was no 
place for his feet to stand; and how could he 
lift me down? Then like a flash came the 
thought, ‘It is a dream ; but if I fall in a 


238 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


dream, I shall receive a great shock : I will 
ask God to change my dream and take me 
down where I shall feel safe from head to foot, 
where I shall have something under me.’ Be- 
fore I could think the thought out I felt sup- 
ported — so supported from head to foot ! Some- 
thing was under me. And I awoke full of 
thanksgiving.” 

Dixie did not speak ; she thought, How she 
lives with God night and day !” 

I wish I could dream a dream,” said Naomi. 

Miss Abhy, I think you must live in heaven ; 
you talk as though it were just next door.” 

It is, to one so near it as I am.” 

Dix, aren’t we comfortable to-night ?” said 
Nomie; have my oranges, and everything is 
so nice. I should be sorry to go away from here.” 

‘‘So should I,” returned Dixie, “unless we 
have a good reason for it.” 

“What is ‘a good reason’?” 

“ Something to make you well and strong.” 

“ I shall he, next summer ; it is only the win- 
ter that freezes the life out of me.” 

“We may have an open winter next winter,” 
said Miss Abby ; “ you may live to see it, if I 
don’t.” 

“ You won’t have any winter in heaven,” said 
Nomie. “I think about that when it is cold 
while I am dressing.” 

Miss Abby arose and went to the window : 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


239 


I don’t see what keeps that boy ! I don’t 
like to go to bed until he comes.” 

“He’ll come,” replied Nomie. “Mr. Prescott 
says he’s clear grit.” 

“ It’s only a little storm,” said Dixie. “ All 
I think of is that he may lose his way in the 
dark.” 

“ It was for his father,” said Nomie ; “ he will 
like to lose his way for him. What lovely eyes 
he has when he talks about his father !” 

“ I haven’t changed my mind,” said Miss 
Abhy, deliberately, unfastening her cap-strings; 
“ there’s something about him I can’t fathom.” 

“ So I say,” said Schenck, slowly rising from 
the calico-covered lounge. “ I wish he would 
come. If I were forty years younger, I’d start 
out after him.” 

“ I wonder if I could go ?” said Dixie. “ What 
could I do ?” 

“There isn’t any lantern,” objected Schenck. 

“Any lantern for what?” asked Martin as he 
entered. “ Hasn’t Meredith come back ?” 

“ No,” said Nomie; “and he’s lost in the dark 
by this time.” 

“He’ll know enough to stay at home next 
time,” returned Martin, shortly. “It’s time 
you were all in bed and the fire and lights 
out.” 

Schenck stood at the window shading his. 
eyes with both hands. 


240 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘There's a light," he cried, joyfully; “he's 
coming." 

Running to the window, Nomie stood beside 
him, watching, with him, the swaying light. 

“ It can’t be our lantern ; he must have bor- 
rowed one," suggested Schenck, “ or bought one 
at the store. He seems to have money ; I found 
a five-dollar bill on his floor this morning when 
I went up to make his bed." 

“An immense amount !" exclaimed Martin. 

“It is something for a poor fellow working for 
his board," returned Schenck, mildly. 

“ Too much. I shall get rid of him ; I have 
no faith that he is what he pretends to be." 

“ Uncle Martin, what does he. pretend to be ?" 
inquired Naomi. 

Uncle Martin was not quite ready with his 
reply. True enough, what did the boy pretend 
to be? He had asked for work, and he had got it; 
he had not represented himself as anything but 
willing to work. That German last summer had 
called himself a music-teacher, and his hands 
looked like it, and his gardening seemed more 
like it still ; but this young fellow was singularly 
reticent concerning his past. Martin knew that 
he had an old father living, and that was all; he 
was not a man to be questioned. Boy as he was, 
it was somewhat hard even for Martin Shields, 
who had commanded sailors, to bid him do this 
and that ; it was difficult not to attempt to be- 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


241 


come a gentleman one’s self to one so perfectly 
the gentleman. Martin would feel more at ease 
to have him out of the way. Had he only sus- 
pected that quick something in the young man’s 
eyes when he had retorted that ‘‘ his name was 
his own as truly as his” ? 

Nomie waited in vain for a reply to her ques- 
tion. Uncle Martin was watching the light over 
her head ; he was disturbed about the hoy. 

The staggering light moved nearer and nearer ; 
it seemed to stop, and then it blinked on. 

^Mt has gone on,” cried Nomie, in dismay. 
‘‘ Oh, Dix, it was somebody else ; it isn’t Mr. 
Meredith.” 

Martin muttered an impatient exclamation as 
he left the room. His wife could not, or would 
not, settle herself to sleep until Meredith re- 
turned; she imagined him sunken down in a 
snow-bank, or fallen under the bridge over the 
brook, or trudging on in the dark in the wrong 
direction. He was not much older than Gilbert, 
and perhaps he too had run away from home. 
Perhaps that was why he was so anxious for his 
father to get that letter. How glad they would 
be if Gilbert would write to his father ! But 
she did not want the young man to be out such 
a night as this — such a wild night — taking the 
letter to the post-office. It was all Jesse’s fault; 
it would be all Jesse’s fault if Meredith never 
came back. Every five minutes of the last half 
16 


242 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


hour she had urged Martin to go out to the 
dining-room to see if he had come. As he re- 
entered she raised herself in bed, asking in a 
startled voice, 

“Has he come?’’ 

“ No, he hasn’t ; he is safe enough. You will 
make yourself sick. I won’t have any more of 
these doings. He won’t he fit for work to-mor- 
row; he wasn’t worth anything to-day.” 

“You can’t get ice to-morrow.” 

“ That isn’t all there is to do. He comes here 
and sets everybody by the ears, and I won’t have 
it. The way he looks at you is enough.” 

“ I have only seen him through the window, 
but I like his face.” 

“ Of course you do. Mr. Johnson wants him 
if he leaves here ; he says he’s apt and would be 
somebody worth having by spring. I don’t want 
him ; I’ve had enough of his airs. He wouldn’t 
touch anything but bread and fruit to-night, and 
he had the audacity to ask for a glass of milk. 
If our fare isn’t good enough, let him earn bet- 
ter. Schenck and Dixie spoil him ; Schenck has 
the tea-kettle boiling now on the dining-room 
stove — ^to make him something hot, I suppose.” 

“ He’ll need it if he ever gets home alive,” re- 
turned his wife, with considerable energy. 

“ What a fuss you all make about a little snow- 
squall ! If he were on the coast to-night keeping 
off-shore, he’d know what hardship is.” 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


243 


“ I wonder if Gilbert will try to go to sea 
exclaimed Gilbert’s stepmother, as wide awake as 
at noonday. 

‘‘He’s afraid of the water.” 

“Yes, and he’s afraid of the land just now. I 
wish you hadn’t made him so afraid of you, Mr. 
Shields.” 

“ It isn’t just the time to remind me of it. 
Meredith isn’t afraid of his father, and what is 
he here for if he hasn’t run away? Any boy 
would be afraid of any father if he had done 
what Gilbert has done.” 

“ I suppose there are fathers that could make 
it easy for a boy to come back,” said his wife, 
meditatively. 

“ Something depends upon the boy,” returned 
Martin, in deep bitterness. “ My father always 
made repentance and confession easy.” 

“Is it impossible for him to be alive now?” 

“ No, not impossible.” 

“ I wish you would find out.” 

“ How ?” he asked, impatiently. 

“ I don’t know, but some way. Go back and 
inquire where he went.” 

“It is too late. The probability is that I 
should find him dead. I’d give my right hand 
and right eye to find him alive.” With great 
effort he controlled his voice and kept his step 
steady as he paced the room. 

Aunt Martin had been to a menagerie in her 


244 


DAVID STRONG ’S ERRAND. 


youth, and she declared that when Mr. Shields 
was excited he walked up and down like a lion 
or a hyena in one of those iron cages. The small, 
warm room to-night, with the strong odor of 
valerian, was not totally unlike one of those 
iron cages. 

There’s something about that boy Meredith 
and his love for his father that makes me think 
of the hither I had and what I might have been 
to him ; I could have been something to him, for 
he talked out his love. I wonder if it is growing 
old that is making a child of me? I am all bro- 
ken up ; Gilbert has taken my life out of me.” 

Poor Aunt Martin ! She could not say one 
word. She could scold and fret and plan and 
find fault ; she could talk out ” her temper and 
her weakness; but her love was pent up. It 
might choke her, and then it would find vent in 
a cough, but seldom in words. To a stranger in 
trouble she might have been somewhat demon- 
strative ; but the nearer her friend was, the closer 
her mouth was shut. Her husband understood 
something by the quivering lips and the slow 
tears, and he smoothed her pillow with less awk- 
wardness than usual and inquired if she would 
like a glass of milk. 

To return to David. Before he reached the 
gate his light had been blown out; he had stum- 
bled down the bank into the road, and then 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


245 


groped his way with the snow blinding his eyes. 
He set his teeth and hurried on. 

‘^Father/’ he murmured, ^Hather’’ — and the 
word warmed his heart — I want you to have 
this letter and not be anxious about me.” 

As he went on he pictured his father sitting 
in his bamboo chair at the open window over- 
looking the sea with his letter — this letter — in 
his hand. How he would read and reread it 
until another time ! How he would sigh and 
smile and close his eyes and lean back and 
pray over it! How, sleeping and waking, the 
thought of his two sons — the son whom he 
had lost and the son whom he had sent — 
never left him ! For his brother also — the son 
whom his father loved — he was struggling 
through this storm. This letter was as faith- 
ful a transcript of his brother’s life as he, with 
his imperfect knowledge, had power to make it — 
the story of his unfailing tenderness toward his 
wife : Dixie had told him about that ; his kind- 
ness to his boys by fits and starts ; his pride in 
his eldest son : Dixie had given him the story of 
that, too ; and his overmastering grief at his loss, 
and his keen sense of disgrace ; his yearning, not 
at all concealed, for his son’s return ; the ready 
forgiveness that was waiting for him; the fur- 
row^s had deepened in his forehead in two days, 
and he moved about as though age had come 
suddenly upon him. 


246 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


The letter ended thus : 

‘‘ Father, but for your love and the restraining 
grace of God, I might have done as he did, and 
worse. I have had your presence and your 
prayers all my years, and yet I am but be- 
ginning to know God and love him. As Mar- 
tin was toward you, so was I toward the one 
lovelier Father. And the greater sin has been 
mine. All day I have been thinking of how 
Jesus Christ must have loved his Father. Even 
if my errand fail — which God forbid! — how 
much I have learned, and am learning!’’ 

Thinking of his father, David pushed, on, 
walking in the middle of the road, as country- 
people do, bending his head before the wind. It 
seemed a long time before a light twinkled out 
of the darkness ; it was soon passed, and there 
was another stretch of snow and wind and dark- 
ness before he was cheered by another glimmer 
of light. He remembered that a house stood on 
the corner at his right where he must turn, and 
that light would guide him into making the turn. 
The corner was reached ; light shone from the 
large windows in front and from two windows at 
the side. He turned and began the slight ascent 
up the hill. Lights gleamed out here and there, 
until he found himself in the village and in 
front of the store. It had been a rough walk, 
and he was in a glow with the exercise. 

There were few loungers in the store to-night; 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


24 ' 


these few were lolling in chairs tipped back, or 
sitting on the counter. All were smoking clay 
pipes, excepting the storekeeper, who stood be- 
hind the counter leaning against it reading aloud, 
in a rapid, thick voice, the news of the day from 
the morning paper received by the mail this after- 
noon. Giving the door a push, David entered, 
for a moment dazzled by the light. 

“ Good-evening greeted the storekeeper, 
dropping his paper. ‘‘What can I do for you 
to-night ?” 

“Drop my letter in your mail-bag and sell 
me a lantern,’’ returned David, stepping to the 
corner. 

“ Sorry, sir, but I sold my only lantern last 
night. That of yours isn’t good for anything; 
there’s a break in the glass.” 

“ It’s as old as the hills,” said a man with his 
hat on the back of his head, as he brought the 
front legs of his chair to the floor. “ I know 
that lantern ; I’ve seen Gilbert Shields with it.” 

“ I saw him to-day,” said a man on the coun- 
ter, taking his pipe from his mouth ; “he looked 
like a poor forsaken wretch. I passed him in 
town ; I shouted to him, but he wouldn’t look at 
me.” 

“I don’t wonder he ran away,” returned the 
storekeeper, tossing David’s letter into a drawer. 
“ I’ve seen his father collar him, big boy as he 


IS. 


248 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


David relighted the candle in his lantern, closed 
the top with a snap and left the store. Conject- 
ures concerning him were rife for the next half 
hour. 

‘‘He colored up when you spoke of Gilbert 
Shields,” said one. 

“ He’s from foreign parts, I shouldn’t wonder,” 
declared another. 

“ One of your fine folks,” said another, “ who 
won’t stop and have a word with you.” 

“ I’ve heard Martin Shields isn’t the man he 
pretends to be, but he doesn’t owe me anything, 
so I’ve nothing against him,” chuckled the store- 
keeper. “That may be one of his fine relations.” 

“ His name is Meredith,” said the man with 
his hat on the hack of his head. “The name is 
no great shakes. I saw it on his letter as he laid 
it on the counter.” 

Regardless of any sensation which he might 
have created, David carefully stepped oflP the 
stoop, but his flaring light was almost instantly 
extinguished. 

“You cowardly little light !” he soliloquized ; 
“ you don’t send your beams very far in this 
naughty world. If you were mine, I would 
throw you away.” 

All David had to do was to go back the way 
he came, and at first that seemed an easy thing 
to do. He went on light-heartedly over what 
seemed an interminable stretch of road, but still 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


249 


the lights on the corner did not put forth one 
glimmer. There was nothing to do but to keep 
on ; and he kept on. Sleigh-bells were sounding 
away off ; if he could hail somebody and have a 
ride, his walk might end without any adventure 
at all. The sound of the bells came nearer ; they 
were behind him, and might possibly be going in 
his direction. He stepped back out of the road, 
stood in the deep snow and waited. 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah !” he shouted as they ap- 
proached. Hurrah ! Hurrah !” 

But the bells jingled merrily on, the storm and 
the sound drowning his strong voice. 

It seemed more than a little lonely after the 
sleigh had jingled by ; the storm was increasing 
in fury. David’s progress was toilsome and slow, 
and the lights on the corner were as distant as 
ever. At home how bright those rooms were ! 
If it had blown up chilly, there would be a fire 
in the grates. Was his father reading, or resting 
in his steamer-chair? Was he thinking of him 
and missing him to-night ? Suppose he should 
steal in behind him and lay his hand on his 
shoulder or on his chair. What a long story he 
would have to relate! Those long letters were 
not telling half of the little incidents in his life. 
How easily he could describe Martin and imitate 
his tones and give all the quick changes in his 
eyes! His brother was possessed of a strong 
nature, and at the bottom of his heart was con- 


260 


DAVID STEONG’S EEEAND. 


cealed much feeling. David had told his father 
that, but in spoken words he could make it so 
real! And how much he could tell of Dixie — 
that lovely spirit and brave heart — and of quaint, 
fascinating little Nomie, his mother’s own cousins, 
to whom he and his father owed a debt of grati- 
tude that had not begun to be paid I His mother 
had eaten her bread at their father’s table, and 
that father’s child was wasting away for want of 
care, and he and his father were not hindering. 
How joyfully that proud, humble Dixie would 
come into their home when she knew what a debt 
of gratitude they were repaying! If he might 
go home for a week, how much better he could 
tell his story than write it ! He was a stumbling 
fellow with his pen where there was so much to 
be told every hour of the day. Should he go 
home and surprise his father ? How the blood 
rushed through his veins at the very thought ! 
But were these David’s reasons for going — for 
leaving his errand unaccomplished? Was he not 
homesick ? Was he not tired of work and hard- 
ship? Had he not had enough of both? Was 
he not judging for himself? Had he a right to 
go home until he was sent for ? Whose will was 
he doing — his father’s will or his own ? Was not 
a shrinking — a cowardly shrinking — from the 
work, at the bottom of his desire to go home? 
Was it not as much to get rid of the cold, the 
poor fare, the hard work, as to be with his father 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


251 


again? Was this an obedient spirit? Would 
Dixie be a coward like this ? ‘‘I came not to do 

mine own will, but the will of Him that sent me/’ 
Was it a wonder, after recalling that, that he bat- 
tled on with a glad heart ? 

David battled on, but still the house on the 
corner did not throw out its guiding light. As 
the thought struck him, he stood still : the 
lights were out; the people had gone to bed. 
Now, where was he? He knew nothing of the 
road after he had passed the corner. Should he 
keep on ? Keep on to what ? Should he turn 
back ? Turn back to what ? If he kept on, he 
would never know when he came to a house ; if 
he turned back, how could he find the corner ? 
Had he been headstrong, to venture out? All 
this story must be told to his father. Truly, he 
could not be trusted ; he had no more wisdom 
than a child. But there was the village; he 
could turn back, go to the store and ask 
where he might borrow a lantern. Somebody 
would certainly be awake in the village. To go 
on was all uncertainty ; there were human beings 
and lights in the village. Tom Bascomb had 
been lost on a prairie, and this misadventure was 
nothing to that. It would not be a bit pleasant to 
keep on a trot all night to keep from freezing. 

Was that wretched Gilbert out anywhere to- 
night? David himself was carrying a light 
heart, but to be burdened with a sin on such 


252 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


a night as this must be desolation. Might he 
go after the boy and make him understand that 
his father was waiting for him to come back ? 
He had turned, as, to keep himself company, he 
had spoken some of his thoughts aloud, but a 
gust of wind had whirled him around, and now 
where was he? Was his face toward the village, 
or was it toward the unknown road? How could 
he determine ? He had a compass in his pocket, 
and a match ; but was the village north, south, 
east or west ? Where had the sun set last night, 
or risen this morning ? Had he not discovered 
the north star and the Dipper last night ? 
Was that sleigh-bells again? He listened with 
strained ears, but the sound — ^if it were a sound — 
died away. His father could not help him ; oh 
how he would fly to him if he could ! But 
could not the Father of Jesus Christ help him? 
Was he not as near to him as he had been to 
Jesus Christ when he was on earth? A little 
poem that his father had years ago taught him 
came to him as he stood there in the dark breast- 
ing the storm. He dared not go on in either 
direction ; there was nothing to guide him. He 
repeated the words softly : 

“ So near — so very near — to God ! 

Nearer I cannot be, 

For in the person of his Son 
I am as near as he. 

So dear — so very dear — to God! 

Dearer I cannot be, 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN 


253 


For the love wherewith he loves his Son 
Is the love he bears to me.” 

So he was not lost : he was only not where he 
had expected to be; and, being here, what 
should he do next ? He could not give his 
horse the lines and trust to the horse’s instinct, 
as he had read of travelers doing, for he had no 
horse. Tramp had started from home with him, 
but he had driven him back, and he had no dog’s 
instinct to trust to. He had no instinct save his 
own, and that was worth nothing. In the thick 
darkness — darkness that could be felt — there was 
no way of judging if he were within the vicinity 
of any dwelling ; if he should leave the road to 
discover, he would be compelled to wade along 
through drifts of snow and to feel his way along 
by rail fences until he touched the top of pickets. 
And possibly he might pass a decent house with 
a rail fence before it; he had seen more than one 
house with such a fence since he came into the 
country. Had he thought of following this plan 
before, he would not carelessly have passed the 
corner ; how thoughtlessly he had trusted to 
being guided by that house on the corner, for- 
getting' that people put out the lights and went 
to bed at bedtime ! He had been too full of his 
own thoughts to recognize any danger of getting 
out of the way. Should he shout ? If he were 
near human beings, could he make his voice 
heard above the uproar of the storm? How 


254 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


glad he was that his dear old father could not 
see him as he stood there ! He would make a 
funny adventure out of it in his letter, and 
talk it all over to him by and by. 

Beginning to shiver as he stood, David turned, 
then turned again ; should he turn once more, or 
keep on ? In all thy ways acknowledge Him, 
and he shall direct thy paths/’ He had acknowl- 
edged him ; should he claim the promise and go 
on in the directed path ? Which was the directed 
path ? When a boy he had read an account of 
a traveler lost in the Yellowstone region ; he was 
lost for many days and had kept himself from 
actual starvation by feeding upon roots. At last 
his feet refused to carry him farther, and his 
brain became confused; he wandered aimlessly 
about, giving up in despair. Suddenly, one day, 
when almost too weak to drag himself along, he 
chanced to lift his eyes to a hill, and there, upon 
the summit, stood the friend in whose wisdom he 
most implicitly trusted, pointing in a direction 
opposite the one in which he had been moving ; 
without one instant’s hesitation, he changed his 
course, went on with renewed vigor and soon 
reached a settlement. He could see the picture 
to-night as plainly as he had seen it in his boy- 
hood — the dark figure upon the height, the deso- 
late traveler in the valley. In his confusion of 
mind God had sent that man heljD in the way 
that he could most easily understand ; how would 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


255 


he help him? By some one coming to succor 
him ? By teaching him the way to go ? He had 
knowledge of some things, but not of the place 
where he stood. He was possessed of common 
sense, but could common sense peer through 
dense darkness? God would not do for him 
what he had power to do for himself. 

David could shout, • and shout he did — most 
lustily; he could find a fence and discover its 
kind : this he did. Walking a short distance 
through the drifted snow along lengths of rail 
fence, all at once his hand touched a post and 
stopped ; the rail ran no farther. Had he 
reached a corner? Which corner? On which 
side of the road was he? Was the fence a rail 
fence on the corner where the lighted house 
stood ? Yes, it was ; he had passed close to it. 
But might it not be a rail fence on the opposite 
side ? Might he not have come to the next cor- 
ner ? Through the darkness a light flashed out, 
then it disappeared; he had caught sight of 
nothing in its suddenness. He stood eagerly 
straining his eyes through the darkness ; it shone 
out again more steadily : it was in the lower story 
of some house across the road, upon the opposite 
corner. With a shout he hastened toward it, 
shouting again and again, until he found himself 
stumbling through an opening of some kind. 
Before another moment he had reached a step — 
two steps, three — and stood before a door. He 


256 


DAVID STBONO’S ERRAND. 


knocked loudly, and waited ; then lie knocked 
again. 

‘‘ Hello cried a voice. ‘‘ What’s wanted ?” 

“Open the door,” answered David. “A man is 
lost and wants a lantern.” 

A shuffling step over a bare floor, some fum- 
bling, and then a bolt was withdrawn and the 
door opened. As soon as David could see any- 
thing he saw a man with frowsy hair, in a red 
flannel shirt and black pantaloons, holding a 
small kerosene lamp in his hand. 

“Who are you, to be sure?” questioned the 
man, with a strong Irish accent. 

“A man who has lost his way. How far am I 
from Martin Shields’s house ?” 

“ Oh, it’s him you are after ? I know him as 
well as I know myself. I worked for him for a 
year, and got paid every cent of my wages. How 
far are you ? A matter of miles — four or five, 
maybe.” 

“ Can’t you direct me and lend me a lantern ?” 

“Why is it that you are traveling in the 
night? Can’t you see as well in the daytime?” 

“ I can see well enough in the night if I have 
a lantern and know the way. I find I have 
dropped mine on the road, but it would not 
stay lighted; so I have lost nothing.” 

“ You seem to he sober,” returned the Irish- 
man, seriously, lifting the light to scan David’s 
features. 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


257 


“ I’m very sober just now. Can you let me 
have a lantern?” 

“ The good one I bought to-day ? How can I 
be sure that you will ever bring it back ?” 

I will not ; I will pay you for it. What is it 
worth ?” 

Come in and look at the creature. How did 
you find your way here ?” 

That’s what I would like to know myself,” 
returned David, following the man through the 
narrow passage into the kitchen, where a fire was 
burning in a small stove. 

I am on the second corner from his road. 
Go about two miles; it’s a long stretch until 
you come to the corner. Turn to your right 
and go on. Do you know the house?” 
light will be waiting for me.” 

The man brought a large lantern containing a 
kerosene lamp, and placed it on the table : 

‘‘That’s new; I bought it myself this very 
day. What will you give for it?” 

“ What will you take ?” 

“I’ll take what it is worth,” bargained the 
man, cautiously. 

“I never purchased a lantern in my life; I 
will give you five dollars for it.” 

“ You will, and fifty cents more, and it is your 
own. I want something for my trouble in get- 
ting up in the dead of night to sell it to you,” 
the man remarked, his eyes twinkling. 

17 


258 


DAVID STRONG'S ERRAND. 


‘‘You shall have it,” said David, smiling. “If 
you are cheating me, you know best. If you are, 
may you walk in the dark twice as far as I have 
walked !” He opened his pocket-book and laid 
the exact money upon the table. 

“Wouldn’t you like a cup of hot coffee thrown 
in to boot ?” inquired the man, laughing. “ I’ll 
make it for you in five minutes.” 

“ I believe I would,” said David. “As you are 
paid for it, I will not thank you, excepting for 
your kindness.” 

“ Sit down a minute, then, sir, and you shall 
have a cup of coffee such as never touched your 
lips since you came from the old country.” 

“ Which old country ?” asked David, amused. 

“ England, to be sure.” 

“ Do you know what time it is ?” 

“ It struck ten just as you frightened me with 
your thundering knock.” 

“ I will not wait, then ; they are anxious about 
me at Mr. Shields’s. Will the oil hold out ?” 

“I filled it to-day. I forgot to charge you 
for the oil,” he added, with another twinkle. 

“ I’ll take that instead of the coffee. Light it, 
please. When you are lost Down South or out 
among the Eocky Mountains, may some one 
come to your help as you have come to mine !” 

“ And cheat me too ?” he laughed. 

“Yes, if you deserve it,” laughed David; for 
the Irishman’s good-humor was irresistible. 


FROM NINE TILL ELEVEN. 


259 


‘‘You are sure you will not get out of tlie 
way T 

“Not if you have directed me right,” said 
David, watching him as he lighted the lantern. 
“ Good-night, and thank you.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” returned the man, heartily. 

With the lantern swinging in his hand, David 
found his way out of the opening in the rail 
fence, crossed the road and went on. 

“You are all right,” shouted the Irishman 
from his doorway, but David did not hear him. 

The way was clear now. David could not 
walk rapidly, but he was sure of his steps, and 
trudged on with a light heart. This lantern was 
a treasure ; he resolved to present it to Martin, 
thus replacing the one he had lost. What a walk 
he was having ! He was in a glow from head to 
foot. After a while the wind was at his back, 
and it did not seem long before Schenck’s light 
in the window shot out its feeble ray and he was 
on the piazza stamping off the snow. 

“Well, I declarer exclaimed Schenck, de- 
lightedly, as he opened the door. “Are you 
alive and well?” 

“We couldn’t go to bed without you,” said 
Nomie, as her yellow head was pushed under 
Schenck’s arm; “we are all up hut the boys.” 


XIV. 

The Mystery. 

N OMIE ran into Aunt Martin’s room to tell 
her the good news that David had come all 
covered with snow ; he had found himself, and 
he had a new lantern with a splendid light. 

Mr. Shields !” His wife started up in bed. 
‘‘ Promise me that you won’t send him off, as you 
threatened. I could have gone to sleep if I had 
wanted to, and he won’t put the house in such an 
uproar again.” 

I rather think he won’t,” returned Martin, 
grimly. 

^‘Do say you won’t send him off,” she con- 
tinued, with increasing excitement; “I sha’n’t 
sleep one wink unless you do.” 

‘‘ Lie down, then,” he answered, roughly ; 
‘‘I’ll let it pass this time.” 

“And don’t you scold him.” 

“ I will scold you if you don’t lie down and go 
to sleep. It’s after eleven o’clock ; you will be 
sending for the doctor to-morrow.” 

“ I will if you don’t promise,” she said, 
weakly. 

260 


THE MYSTERY. 


261 


“I will promise, then. — Naomi, go out and 
shut the door. What are you listening with 
such a white face for ?” 

Naomi ran out, and as soon as she could open 
the dining-room door she cried out, 

“ Oh, Mr. Meredith, he isn’t going to send you 
away or scold you, either ; Aunt Martin made 
him promise.” 

‘‘Then I’m relieved,” exclaimed Schenck, draw- 
ing a long breath. “ What I have suffered the 
last hour, Mr. Meredith, nobody knows.” 

“ You are all very kind,” said David, grate- 
fully, “ and I was headstrong, to go out in the 
storm and frighten you all.” 

“ Boys will be boys and have their own way,” 
said Miss Abby. “I couldn’t sleep until you 
came, even if you haven’t a mother to be 
worried about you.” 

“He has a father,” said Nomie. 

David stood by the fire tasting his bowl of hot 
ginger tea when Martin entered ; David did not 
look toward him. Schenck stood near David 
watching him as he drank each mouthful. The 
blocks of wood were upon the top of the stove. 
Miss Abby and Nomie had gone up stairs, each 
with a hot brick wrapped in newspaper ; Dixie 
stood at the table set for breakfast, preparing a 
cup of cold tea for Aunt Martin to drink in the 
night. The new lantern still burned upon the 
table. 


262 


DAVID STBONG’S EBBAND. 


‘‘Well, young man, what account have you to 
give of yourself?” questioned Martin. 

The tone was encouraging; David turned to 
him. How glad he would be if he could love 
his brother ! Could he love God, whom he had 
not seen, if he could not love his brother, whom 
he had seen ? Had he met Martin Shields acci- 
dentally, unaware of the kinship, there were 
qualities in him that would have attracted him. 
He was a might that might have become a power. 

“ I have quite a story to relate,” said David. 
“ I was foolish enough to lose myself, and found 
myself at an Irishman’s house, where I bought 
this lantern.” 

“It was at John Mallery’s,” interrupted 
Schenck ; “ I recognized him by Mr. Meredith’s 
description.” 

“You have had a walk,” returned Martin, in- 
terestedly. “ Did you have any lantern ?” 

“ I relighted yours at the store, but it went out 
the instant the air touched it ; I lost it somewhere 
on the road, and, if you will accept it, I will give 
you this instead.” 

Martin examined the lantern without replying. 

“ At the store I heard something of Gilbert,” 
continued David, with evident hesitation ; “ it will 
not comfort you to know it, but the truth is some- 
thing to know in this case. He was seen ‘in 
town ’ to-day; I suppose you know what place is 
meant.” 


THE MYSTERY. 


263 


“ Who saw him asked Gilbert’s father, set- 
ting down the lantern. 

‘‘A man in the store ; he was telling the others 
of it. He spoke to him, but Gilbert made no 
answer.” 

Was that all he said?” 

How cold and hard the voice was ! David saw 
that in his great effort to speak evenly Martin 
must speak in this tone or not at all. 

“ No,” said David, gently; “he said he looked 
very badly.” 

“Was that all?” 

“ That was all, sir.” 

Martin took up the lantern again; Dixie 
stirred the cup of tea. 

“ I am sorry to learn that I have troubled 
Mrs. Shields to-night,” said David as he held 
the empty yellow bowl in his hand. “ You are 
all most kind, to be concerned about me. I 
should not have ventured out had I known what 
a wild night it is. My only thought was that 
my father must not miss my letter for two 
mails.” 

“ Why are you not with your father, young 
man, if he depends upon you to such an ex- 
tent?” asked Martin, in his severest manner. 

“ Perhaps it is fair that you know something 
about me,” replied David, flushing, but speaking 
without embarrassment. “My father is an old 
man, and he does depend upon me.” 


264 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Are you his only son ?” asked Martin. 

‘‘ No, but I am the one to attend to some busi- 
ness up North here that he could not well attend 
to himself. I am working my way here with you 
until I can write to him that his business is satis- 
factorily settled.’’ 

‘‘Of course the journey cost so much that 
you might as well save your board,” suggested 
Schenck, in his smooth way. 

“ How soon will it be settled?” asked Martin. 

“ That I cannot tell — neither can my father — 
at present. For his sake, I hope it will be done 
without causing him too much anxiety.” 

“ Couldn’t you have found something to do in 
the city ?” asked Martin. 

“I did not try; I am satisfied to be with 
you.” 

“ Is the business in law?” questioned Schenck. 

“ I suppose it might become a point in law ; 
I never heard of a similar case. As it is my 
father’s business, you will excuse me for not tell- 
ing you more.” 

“ I knew you were not what you pretended to 
be,” said Martin. “ I hope your story is true. I 
distrust human nature; I have been around the 
world, and I know men.” 

“Then you cannot be deceived in me,” said 
David, with his frank laugh. “I have told 
you the truth, but I am not at liberty to re- 
veal the whole truth.” 


THE MYSTERY. 


265 


‘‘Where is your brother?” asked Schenck. 
“ Why can’t he attend to it ?” 

Dixie was forgetting the cup of tea and listen- 
ing with eager eyes. Then there was a mystery 
about him. She was sure there was no wicked- 
ness of his own concerned in the mystery. 

“ My brother is involved in it,” said David. 

“ Meredith, you can’t deceive me, as I said,” 
persisted Martin. “Your brother has done 
wrong, and you are here to cover his tracks; 
you are hiding here while you wait for news 
from him.” 

For a moment, David did not speak. Schenck 
looked at him with great pity in his eyes. 

Dixie exclaimed, 

“ Oh, Uncle Martin, how can you ?” 

“You are partly right, sir,” acknowledged 
David, after a moment. “My brother — ^he is 
older than I — has done wrong: he has dis- 
graced my father ; and I ain waiting here until 
I may return to my father with news of him.” 

“ That’s why you feel so about Gilbert, then,” 
said Schenck. 

“Your father sent you?” said Martin. 

“ I do not think I should have come of my 
own accord ; I do not love my brother as I 
should, but I am doing it for my father.” 

“ Is your father a poor man ?” said Martin. 
“ Can he afford to let you work for nothing for 
me?” 


266 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘Oh yes; he can afford it. I hope I may 
soon go home.’’ 

“Do you want to earn enough to pay your 
passage back?” asked Martin. 

“ Not if you cannot afford to give it to me.” 

“ Mr. Johnson can afford to give it to you ; 
you had better see him.” 

“ With your permission, I would rather stay 
here and work for less ; I am interested in every 
one of you. I want to stay until Gilbert comes 
back. He is like — like my brother.” 

Martin’s hard face relaxed; he could have 
grasped the young man by the hand. This, 
then, was the secret of his interest in Gilbert? 
Would he have any respect for him if he 
knew all ? Would he despise him or would 
he pity him? It would be something in his 
unhappy old age if this fine young fellow 
would look up to him. He had no friends ; he 
was in ill-repute with his neighbors for churlish- 
ness ; he tried to satisfy himself that so long as 
they minded their own business he would mind 
his and ask no odds of them ; but he had found 
the world a hard world, and he felt that he would 
be better off out of it than in it, especially since 
this affair of Gilbert’s. 

Even with his eyes upon Dixie’s fingers as she 
stirred the tea, David felt the changes in Martin’s 
face. Could he be thinking of himself when he 
was Gilbert’s age ? 


THE MYSTERY. 


267 


“This is a hard world, Mr. Meredith,’’ said 
Martin. 

“I do not know enough of it to agree with 
you,” returned David ; “ it has been a good sort 
of a world to me. T wish you could see my 
father, Mr. Shields; he would tell you what 
kind of a world he has found it. From some 
of his experiences one would judge that it was 
full of soft hearts and gratitude. Naturally, I 
look at the world through his eyes, my own not 
being very experienced.” 

“ What is your father ?” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ What is his business ?” 

“ He is still an active man and has oversight 
of a large business.” 

“ Then he is not poor,” said Schenck. 

“ No ; he is not poor. There are but two 
children — two sons — of us ; my mother is dead. 
My brother ran away from home ; for his own 
sake and for his dead mother’s sake, my father 
has sent me to find him. I have found him ; I 
know where he is. He does not know that I am 
in search of him. I want to persuade him that 
my father will forgive him.” 

“ Sending you after him is persuasion enough,” 
said Martin ; “ that will tell him the whole story. 
You won’t have to talk long to prove his readi- 
ness to forgive him and take him back. I am 
going to start for town at daylight to-morrow to 


268 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND. 


find my son. I wish you success with all my 
heart, Meredith.^’ 

David’s eyes filled ; Dixie was sure there were 
tears in Uncle Martin’s eyes. Of course it was 
nothing for Schenck to be wiping his eyes. 

^‘Mr. Shields, what I have told you may 
change my position in regard to yourself. I am 
willing to work for you ; from this position I can 
best serve my father and my brother. I want to 
stay here. I am interested in your home : you 
are all near to me ; you are in trouble — the same 
trouble that my father is in, the same trouble 
more than one father is in to-night ; and I want 
to stay until Gilbert comes back. I am sure he 
will come back. He is easily moved and influ- 
enced ; he loves his father more than his father 
supposes. All he is afraid of is your anger.” 

‘‘ He need not be afraid of that,” said Schenck, 
quickly. ‘^Need he. Cousin Martin?” 

Let him come and find out,” returned Mar- 
tin, in a voice which strong emotion rendered 
rough. 

‘‘ I am able to pay my board, and, indeed, I 
prefer to do so since this explanation. If you will 
take me for a few days as a boarder, I will be 
obliged. I am confident it will not be for many 
days ; I am hopeful about my brother to-night. 
What shall I pay you? A dollar a day? I 
cannot count upon a week, as I am at my father’s 
command, and he may send for me.” 


THE MYSTEBY. 


269 


‘‘You have poor fare for a dollar a day/’ said 
Martin. 

“ I am a farmer ; I expect farmers’ fare.” 

“Your fare shall he improved. I suppose you 
want the spare-room, where you can have a fire 
evenings ?” 

“Will one dollar a day admit of that?” 

“I think I can make it; you are not much 
trouble. If Gilbert comes home, I shall not 
need your services. — What do you say, Dixie, 
to another hoarder?” 

“I am trying to understand it,” said Dixie. 
“ I felt all the time that Mr. Meredith was out 
of place.” 

“ Why didn’t you ask for board at first ?” in- 
quired Martin. 

“ Because I came to work. The truth is, I 
wanted my brother to know that I was willing 
to suffer something for him,” said David, hesi- 
tatingly ; “ I cannot explain all.” 

“ Coming for him is enough,” answered Mar- 
tin, decidedly ; “ if he won’t take your coming 
and your father’s sending, he’s certainly in a bad 
fix.” 

“ Is he younger than you are ?” asked Dixie. 

“No; he is older.” 

“ In the prodigal story,” said Schenck, “ it was 
the younger that ran away.” 

“ It is worse still when it is the only son,” said 
Martin. “ I am glad to have the mystery cleared 


270 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


about you, Mr. Meredith ; I was afraid you were 
the scapegrace yourself.’’ 

‘'Another thing I ought to explain, perhaps,” 
continued David; “it hurts me to have anything 
about me that is not fair and above-board. My 
name is ‘ David Meredith,’ but ‘ Meredith’ is not 
my surname. When you know about my brother, 
I can tell you my full name.” 

“ Oh, I’m sorry !” said Dixie. “ ‘ Meredith’ 
was the name of my mother’s cousin, and it 
made me feel at home with you.” 

“ It is my name still,” said David, smiling ; 
“ we needn’t become strangers this instant.” 

“We couldn’t,” returned Dixie, positively. 

“Well, well!” exclaimed Schenck; “if all this 
isn’t queer enough !” 

“You think we have heard of your brother 
and you do not want to betray him,” hazarded 
Martin. 

“I am sure that you know — something,” David 
stammered. Was he being drawn into a revela- 
tion of himself? Was the sympathy in his 
brother’s face leading him too far? It would 
hardly matter ; in reply to the letter he would 
write to-night would certainly come permission 
to make himself known. “You do not regard 
me now as entering your family under false pre- 
tences, Mr. Shields? I shall always remember 
the kindness that has been shown to the poor 
fellow that wanted to work for his board.” 


THE MYSTERY. 


271 


“ Now, since you have been so frank, I do not 
distrust you,’’ was Martin’s ready answer ; but 
appearances have been against you. I saw that 
you were a gentleman, and yet why you should 
come along and ask work like a tramp certainly 
did take me somewhat aback. But you have had 
a good reason ; your brother will see that you 
are in earnest. You may keep on and work and 
not pay board if it will help you any.” 

‘‘ No ; I think he will understand, and I do 
not do your work to suit you. I intend to go 
into my father's business as soon as I can go 
home. Besides, I confess I shall enjoy a little 
rest. This day has not been an easy one for 
me.” 

I should think not,” declared Schenck. Get- 
ting lost, too !” 

Oh, that was only fun now it is over. I shall 
find something to study or read for a few days 
while I am waiting.” 

How relieved David was ! He wanted to 
shout, or to give a boyish leap over a chair, or 
to seize Dixie and dance her around, or to punch 
sober old Schenck. 

‘‘Will you go into the spare-room to-night, 
Mr. Meredith?” inquired Dixie. 

“And leave that nice little room you got ready 
for the tramp ? Not to-night. I’ll take the spare- 
room to-morrow, if you please.” 

“And you came here because you met Frank 


272 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and Gilbert and knew Martin wanted a man V’ 
said Scbenck, inquiringly. 

‘‘ I was glad to meet Frank and Gilbert,” re- 
turned David, evasively. 

Will it make Aunt Martin excited to know 
about it all?” asked Dixie. 

‘‘No; it will stir her up and give her some- 
thing to think about,” said Uncle Martin. 

“ It may as well — my business may as well — 
be kept from the little boys and Miss Harper,” 
suggested David. 

“ Certainly,” assented Martin ; “I shall tell no 
one but Mrs. Shields.” 

What would Schenck do if he could not tell 
somebody? He had been sure there had been 
a mystery about the young man. 

It was now so long after midnight that it was 
one o’clock before David finished his letter to his 
father. Now that he had no “ chores ” to do in 
the morning, he would rise early and take the 
letter to the mail ; the two letters would therefore 
be received at the same time. Had his father 
gained nothing by his long walk? Had he re- 
mained home and written his letter, retiring 
early, this conversation might not have occurred ; 
it certainly would not have taken place in the 
presence of the boys. It would be something 
from this time to study his brother from a new 
standpoint. There was no mystery now; he 
could be himself. Had he gained anything for 


THE MYSTERY. 


273 


his father by these days of servitude ? Had he 
gained anything for his brother? That was the 
point. He had certainly gained something for 
himself : even were the plan a whim of his father, 
he had learned obedience. Had he revealed any- 
thing to give Martin a glimmer of the truth? 
Having no brother and believing his father dead, 
how could he suspect anything ? Were they not 
thinking of his brother as one not much older 
than himself? 

Martin told his wife David’s story before she 
slept that night. 

Mr. Shields, suppose your father should be 
alive and send for you as this father is sending 
for his son?” 

That’s impossible — downright impossible. I 
had no brother, either. No ; I sha’n’t beg my 
father’s forgiveness in this world. It is too late 
for some things.” 

While David wrote at the table by the light 
of one candle and the kerosene lantern, Schenck 
sat by the stove keeping up the wood-fire, and 
now and then turning the blocks of wood upon 
the top of the stove, that they might become 
thoroughly heated. I doubt if any one in the 
household lived a more intense life than Schenck ; 
too much soda in the biscuit was sufficient to give 
him a wakeful night. As he sat watching the 
broad shoulders bent over the table, noting the 
changing expression of the eyes and the rapid 
18 


274 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


movement of the pen, he was overwhelmed ^ith 
admiration of the boy who was doing so much 
for his unworthy brother, and who had so much 
to think about and so many letters to write. He 
rejoiced that he could do something to keep his 
hero’s feet warm. It was enough for him that 
he might minister to such spirits as David and 
Dixie. David’s tramp in the storm to-night as- 
sumed the magnitude to him that crossing the 
Alps would to David. Poor old Schenck ! De- 
spite the happiness of his humble ministry, this 
world was to him but a wilderness and a vale of 
tears. 

When David folded his letter he raised his 
eyes, to find Schenck standing beside him hold- 
ing in his hands the two blocks of wood neatly 
wrapped in newspapers. 

You carry the candle, and I will carry the 
wood,” said Schenck. 

Oh, thank you, no. You are too kind, Mr. 
Savage. You have been sitting up all this time 
for me ? Thinking of my feet, too !” 

‘^Hadn’t you better get warm again before 
you go up stairs?” 

‘‘I am comfortable now. Let me take the 
wood.” 

“ No ; go ahead with the light. I know just 
how to fix them in bed.” 

David laughed and obeyed. Schenck slowly 
toiled up the stairs behind him. As David 


THE MYSTERY, 


275 


entered his chamber, Schenck exclaimed in a 
loud whisper, 

‘‘ What’s that ? See here ! There’s a noise in 
the store-room.” 

With his hand on the latch of the store-room 
door, David was arrested by the sound of heavy 
breathing. 

“ There is some one asleep here, that is all,” he 
said. 

Remembering that he had the wood with 
which to defend himself, Schenck looked into 
the room ; there was nothing to be seen except- 
ing the usual array of boxes, barrels and bun- 
dles. Exploring farther, David discovered upon 
a roll of rag carpet, curled up and fast asleep, a 
boyish figure with a sorrowful, worn face even in 
his sleep. He beckoned to Schenck. 

Schenck tiptoed toward him and looked over the 
barrels to the corner where the weary sleeper lay. 

Gilbert !” he exclaimed. How on earth — 
Did I ever?” 

“ Suppose we let him sleep ?” whispered David. 
‘‘ He is tired out. He is not uncomfortable, if he 
may be covered up.” 

“ I’ll fix him. Take this wood,” said Schenck, 
gleefully. 

Put that at his feet. See how wet his boots 
are !” 

That’s good. But how can I get over there?” 
asked Schenck. 


276 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Taking the wood, David made his way into the 
corner and deposited the pieces where the boy’s 
boots could rest on it. 

Schenck soon brought a horse-blanket and a 
buffalo-robe that were kept in the house, and 
David laid them over the sleeping figure. 
Schenck suggested a pillow for the head, but 
David decided that that might awaken the lad. 

He will know he is discovered,” said David 
when they had left the room and closed the 
door. 

^H’ll stay up and keep the fire going till I 
hear him moving, and I’ll have something for 
him to eat ; he looks starved. He has been a 
tramp in real earnest. I could horsewhip that 
Frank if I had him here this minute. Gilbert 
will not be afraid of me, and I can tell him his 
father was going after him to-morrow.” 

Will you let his father know he is here ?” 

“Not till he wakes up,” replied Schenck ; 
“sleep will do them both good.” 

“ It wouldn’t hurt you,” said David, kindly. 

“ Oh, I can take forty winks in my chair 
between-times.” 

“ This has been a night,” said David. 

“And now it is morning,” said Schenck. 
“Well, I’ll have a cup of coffee for him.” 

Schenck never attempted spiritual consola- 
tion: if he could keep sinners warm and give 
them something to eat, his sympathetic soul was 


THE MYSTERY. 


277 


satisfied ; if he prayed for them, he never told 
them so. 

David fell asleep without his blocks of wood, 
and slept so soundly that he did not hear foot- 
steps or whispering voices. Before he awoke in 
the morning Gilbert and his father had done all 
the chores together. 


XV. 

Gilbert Again. 

T he snow-storm continued all day Saturday. 

What a day of rejoicing it was ! Aunt Mar- 
tin insisted upon sitting up in her rocker when 
Gilbert went in to talk to her, and, undemonstra- 
tive as she was, she put her arms about his neck 
and wept. 

“It’s all forgotten and forgiven,” she said be- 
tween her sobs. 

Gilbert had not broken down with his father, 
but he dropped his head in her lap and cried to 
his heart’s content ; and it was to his heart’s con- 
tent, for the tears washed all hardness and bitter- 
ness away. 

“ I have promised father that I will stay home 
night and day summer and winter till I have 
worked out the worth of the money. I can study 
by myself. I won’t think about college till you 
are paid back.” 

Joe and Jesse followed him from room to room 
as though at any instant he might vanish from 
their sight. 

Sarah alone held herself severely aloof from 

27S 


GILBERT. 


279 


the family gladness. How could the boy feel 
that he had done wrong if they did not treat 
him like the thief that he was ? He would think 
repenting and being forgiven was a very easy 
matter. 

Miss Abby looked at her seriously and asked 
her if she knew how good it was to be forgiven : 

There is joy up in Heaven to-day ; don’t you 
think we want some of it down here ? I think 
his own father ought to love him as well as the 
angels, who never had a son. They joy because 
they love God, and it is for his glory that sinners 
come back ; and I’m afraid we think more of the 
sinner than we do of the glory of God.” 

Miss Abby inquired of Gilbert if he had sought 
God’s forgiveness also, and his full, quick Yes, 
I have !” satisfied her more than his return to his 
father. 

“ Father,” Gilbert said, you must thank Mr. 
Meredith for bringing me back. I could not run 
away and stay, with his words in my ears. He 
said every day would make it harder to come 
hack ; he said the experience would tell on my 
whole life. I might sink very low, and God 
would surely punish me if I dishonored my 
father. He told me about somebody he knew 
who had gone away, and how his father was in 
agony for him to come back. I shook him off, 
blit I didn’t forget.” 

Martin repeated these words to David ; he kept 


280 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


his proud mastery over himself for a while, hut 
at last lost control of his voice and burst intp 
tears : 

‘‘ I have a story to tell my son — a story that I 
have never told to mortal ears, Mr. Meredith. I 
ran away from my father forty years ago, and the 
agony of it eats out my heart to-day. I have 
been successful in nothing; my first marriage 
was not a happy one ; I have never made money ; 
evil has pursued me all my life. My sin came 
back to me in my own son. Oh, if I had gone 
back to my father as he has come back to his ! I 
have been a hard father, but my father was a 
tender father to me. He would have come to 
me if he could, but I changed my name and 
wandered about the world. Now, in my old age, 
I am a burden to myself and no good to anybody. 
I sha’n’t try to thank you for what you said to 
Gilbert. I wish I could help you find your 
brother.’’ 

‘‘ I will tell you when you can help me,” re- 
turned David, much moved. 

This, then, was the heart that was underneath 
that rough, stern exterior? Was it too late for 
the man who did not love God or his fellow-man 
to repent and become as a little child ? He would 
go back to his earthly father if he could ; had he 
no agony of self-reproach for the wrong of sinning 
against God ? How could he think of his father 
and not think of God ? 


GILBERT. 


281 


The boy wants to go to college, and go he 
shall if I sell the coat off my back/’ 

‘‘Has he any profession in view?” inquired 
David. 

“ He does not say so, but I shall not be sur- 
prised — ^it’s a queer thing to think of now, on top 
of what he has done, but I shall not be surprised 
— if he turns out to be a preacher. I sha’n’t put 
anything in his way even if I am not a church- 
goer myself. I am getting old, but I may live to 
see the day when I shall hear him preach.” 

“ I fervently hope you may,” returned David. 

Which was the true Martin Shields, the man 
who kept his family at arm’s length, or this man 
who opened his heart to a stranger ? David won- 
dered, and asked his father the question : 

“ He does the most uncharacteristic things 
every hour ; I am ready for anything. At one 
moment I think him the stingiest of mortals ; the 
next he will do a generous thing. This farm- 
house is a little world — a commotion of small 
interests the same in their nature and power 
over human hearts as those that turn the world 
upside down. In Martin I am more interested 
every time he speaks. I say to myself, ‘ What a 
wreck you are ! What a man you might have 
become !’ He is at continual warfare with him- 
self This matter of Gilbert has touched him 
and brought him out wonderfully. I wonder if 
it ever is too late for the immortal soul to become 


282 


DAVID STRONG 'S ERRAND. 


what it might have become? Martin’s eternal 
life has been such a short time lived I call him 
an old man, hut, compared with the life beyond, 
is he old ? He is old physically, but is the Mar- 
tin inside this weatherbeaten house he dwells in 
old f Isn’t there another chance for him among 
men ? I am surprised at myself when I feel my- 
self loving him, beginning to love him with a 
love apart from his relationship to my father 
who is a part of myself — sometimes I believe 
the whole of myself.” 

Martin Shields was as really a problem to 
himself as he was to David; he could endure 
himself better when he felt that he had a heart. 

How David — unselfish, loyal-hearted David — 
reveled in the possibility that Martin’s son might 
become to his grandfather what Martin himself 
had never been, and could now never become ! 
That his father should be honored and made 
happy he delighted in, to all exclusion of self; 
rather, he was so sure of his own place in his 
father’s heart that he dreaded no rival. 

David had a genius for faithfulness. 

That evening, after Gilbert had asked permis- 
sion of his father to attend a prayer-meeting in 
the village church, Martin said to David, 

‘‘They are holding meetings every night in 
the village, and Gilbert has gone to get help 
somehow. The boy has found out that he is a 
sinner. If he ever does preach — perhaps it is 


GILBERT. 


283 


folly for me to think of it — want him to take 
his grandfather’s name — ^Martin.’ He is named 
‘ Martin Gilbert.’ ” As Martin spoke, his coun- 
tenance changed. There was the boy’s true 
name — “Strong.” Could he ever take that? 
Could he never give his hoy his father’s hon- 
orable name? Must Gilbert go down to the 
grave wearing this badge of his father’s shame ? 
Was this what he had bequeathed to his children 
and his children’s children? Was the mark of 
the transgression of his youth to be visited upon 
them from generation to generation ? “ Of 

them that hate me.” What did those words 
mean ? Where did they come from ? His own 
life was spoiled, but there were Gilbert and the 
others. 

David made no answer ; he was watching his 
brother’s face. How dark and stern it had 
grown ! 

Gilbert had kindled a fire on the hearth of the 
spare-room early in the evening ; David excused 
himself from the circle in the dining-room that 
he might go up stairs and write. His first 
thought, as he stood before the blaze on the 
hearth in the warm, pleasant room was, “ And 
that frail little girl has to shiver in a cold room 
to-night !” 

Nomie was not so well as usual ; her cheeks 
were burning with fever, and she had thrown 
herself upon the lounge with a pain in her back 


284 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


that brought the tears in spite of every effort. 
But she fell asleep in Dixie’s arms, comforted. 

While David sat writing late that night there 
was a tap at his door — an uncertain tap that he 
instantly felt must be Gilbert’s. The boy entered 
at his word of welcome, and, coming to the 
hearth, stood still, with his eyes upon the 
flames, with not a word to say. As he stood 
there, David described him to his father : 

“Tall, athletic, limbs well knit, breadth of 
chest, head well set upon his shoulders, an in- 
tellectual forehead and excellent eyes, a mobile 
face very attractive in feature and expression, a 
mouth not resolute. There is something deter- 
mined in his whole demeanor to-night, and yet 
something very humble. You have a grandson 
that you will love as well as be proud of. Oh, 
father, what an errand you sent me to do ! and 
how it is being done without being done by me !” 

“ Mr. Meredith,” said Gilbert, without chang- 
ing his position or lifting his eyes, “ I arose in 
church to-night, when some of the others did, to 
ask for prayers ; what shall I do next ?” 

“It depends upon what you did that for,” 
returned David, not staying his pen. He was 
giving his father the boy’s exact words and his 
own. 

“I do not think” — Gilbert spoke deliberately — 
“ that I did it because the others did ; of course 
that helped me and made it easier. And the 


GILBERT. 


285 


school-teacher told me before church that he was 
praying for me, and that helped me and made it 
easier/’ 

As David made no reply, Gilbert turned to 
look at him ; David raised his eyes with such a 
look in them that he went on with more feeling 
in his voice : 

“ I hope I should have risen in response to the 
request if I had been the only one in the house 
who was a sinner — the only one in the world.” 
When moved, Gilbert talked easily ; there was a 
charm in his way of uttering the simplest words. 
‘‘ The time had come when I must act for myself. 
People knew I had run away ; they knew I had 
come back. When they saw me in church, they 
must have understood that I had come back pen- 
itent. It was like the judgment-day : I was 
before man and God. I had to take a stand, 
and I did.” 

“What stand?” 

There was a long silence; Gilbert stood mo- 
tionless, David’s pen moved rapidly. 

“ The stand of a sinner who knows he is lost.” 

“ What do you mean by being lost ?” 

“Away otf where man cannot do him any 
good — where he cannot do himself any good; 
where he cannot get back ; where he flounders 
deeper and deeper if he stays. I know, for I 
tried to stay lost.” 

“And you are lost now, this minute.” 


286 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘ I am lost now/’ said Gilbert, in a voice be- 
traying strong emotion. 

I remember hearing my father say once that 
he felt lost before he felt found, and the joy of 
one was greater than the agony of the other. 
You know who came to seek the lost.” 

Yes/’ 

“ And not only to seek, but to save, them — ^to 
find them and keep them found. Do you believe 
that?” 

‘‘ I believe he came to find the lost ; I believe 
that I am lost, but I do not know what to do 
next.” 

‘‘What would you do next if you were sinking 
under the ice and Christ came and stood over 
you?” 

“ I would stretch out my arms to him and let 
him save me.” 

“Stretch out your arms to him now and let 
him save you.” 

“ Will you pray with me ?” 

Never in all his life, since he had knelt at his 
father’s knee and repeated the Lord’s Prayer, 
had David prayed aloud in the presence of 
another; his prayers in secret were most pre- 
cious, but could he find a voice to speak to the 
Lord when some one besides the Lord was listen- 
ing ? But could he not speak to the Lord for 
Gilbert? Was he not a part of his father — his 
own flesh and blood ? He knelt instantly, Gil- 


GILBERT. 


287 


bert dropping on liis knees beside him. He 
prayed for Gilbert as he had never prayed for 
himself; he spoke to the Lord about Gilbert 
with more love and confidence than the love 
and confidence with which he was writing to 
his father. He now knew that he loved God 
better than he had ever loved his father. 

Without a word, Gilbert arose and left him. 
David wrote to his father as soon as he was 
alone : 

I am very glad he wanted to come to me. 
He has his pastor and his friend the school- 
master, but he came home and came to me. 
It makes me rejoice to know that something 
in my life must prove to him that I am a 
disciple of Christ. Perhaps at last I am grow- 
ing something like my father. Gilbert is so near 
my age that we shall be like brothers ; I cannot 
bring myself to think of the old man down stairs 
as a hr other. Forget the young man of twenty- 
three whom you lost, and think of your older son 
as an old man. Gilbert is nearly as tall as I am, 
and not much more than two years my junior. 
Martin calls me a boy.” 


XVI. 

Cousins. 

S UNDAY morning was clear and bright. 

From David’s windows he could see the 
country stretching for miles in dazzling white- 
ness ; it was years since he had seen a sight like 
this. He ran down stairs enthusiastic over the 
beauty of his new white world. 

Southerners do not appreciate what they 
lose,” said he ; “I wish I could transport my 
father here to-day. We have lived either in 
California or in the South for so long that we 
forget there is any other than our green world.” 
I like your green world,” said Naomi. 

I wish you were in it to-day,” said David. 
The snow-world was the first happening that 
morning, and the crackling fire in the long-un- 
used parlor stove was the second happening. 
Nomie hung around the fire. How she enjoyed 
heat! She liked to tingle with heat. David 
looked at her purple little hands and thought 
how she would revel in the hot sand on the sea- 
shore. How he would delight in seeing her tum- 
ble about in it I Dared he whisper his secret in 
288 


COUSINS. 


289 


her ear? Must he keep it to himself still longer 
until he had heard again from his father? He 
could imagine Dixie’s eyes and her speechless 
ecstasy. 

The parlor was a stiff, square room with very 
white whitewashed walls, a common red-and- 
green ingrain carpet, six cane-seated chairs ar- 
ranged along the walls, a large wooden rocker 
cushioned with red, its back covered with a 
coarse knitted tidy. An old-fashioned horse- 
hair sofa gave the room its only air of comfort; 
a round-table, with books piled in twos and 
threes as near the edge as possible, stood between 
the windows, with a tall lamp in the centre, 
placed on a red mat; the windows were cur- 
tained scantily with Turkey red fastened back 
with red cord. On the high mantel were 
perched a china rooster, a monkey’s head fash- 
ioned out of pink soap, a shaving-mug with the 
initials M. S.” in gilt upon it, and at each end 
a palm-leaf fan. 

This parlor had given Dixie more than one 
paroxysm of homesickness during her first year 
at Aunt Martin’s farm. But to-day there was 
the fire and there was the glorious view from the 
windows, and it would take less than these to 
help Dixie forget the monkey’s head and the 
shaving-mug with its brush still in it. 

Dixie had persuaded Aunt Martin to let Gil- 
bert make a fire in the parlor, representing to 

19 


290 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


her that it was not fair to take Mr. Meredith’s 
money and not make him comfortable. 

‘‘ If he stays all winter, I want to save enough 
to pay for my new chair,” returned Aunt Mar- 
tin, economically. 

Don’t save it out of his flesh and bones,” 
advised Dixie, laughing. 

Aunt Martin’s room was entered by a door 
leading from the parlor as well as by the door in 
the hall, and Dixie had a plan of heating the 
parlor and beguiling her into it. The doctor 
expected to call to-day, and Dixie hoped to sur- 
prise him by finding his long-time patient in 
another room. 

Nomie had been more languid than usual this 
morning, and acknowledged that she had not 
slept well. 

The doctor will give you something, Nomie : 
I’ll ask him ; and you must have something to 
make you eat. If it had not been for those 
oranges yesterday, you would have eaten noth- 
ing.” 

I have some for to-day too. I don’t like to 
eat them ; for when they are gone, I sha’n’t have 
any.” 

Perhaps you will,” thought David. 

Immediately after breakfast Dixie led her into 
the parlor and seated her in the rocker near -the 
stove, with a pillow at her back and her feet 
lifted to ^ chair ; and, covered with Dixie’s new 


COUSINS. 


291 


shawl, she appeared even more fragile than when 
moving about the house. Her eyes shone un- 
usually bright, and the dark half circles beneath 
them gave them an air of extreme delicacy; her 
little face was pinched and drawn with some new 
pain. 

Dixie,” she said, while Dixie was tucking the 
shawl about her, ‘‘ I feel so sorry for Hannibal 
that I don’t like to think about him. I read all 
about him last night in one of Gilbert’s books. 
I’m so sorry he couldn’t take Home. He was 
fifteen years in Italy, but he was so patient about 
it; if he had been more rash, the History says, 
he might have done it. But perhaps, if he had,” 
she said, in her wisest voice, turning an orange 
around in her fingers, Carthage might have 
had all the power instead of Home, and per- 
haps it was meant for Borne to have all the 
power. Don’t you think so?” 

Oh, Nomie, Nomie ! you are too deep for 
me,” laughed Dixie. “ What did Borne do 
with the power?” 

‘‘ Don’t you know ? I told you once — St. 
Paul went there — and about the emperor who 
was baptized, and all his soldiers, and seeing a 
cross in the sky. I wish you didn’t forget.” 

I wish I didn’t,” replied Dixie ; “ but I do 
remember now. It isn’t quite clear to me about 
Borne, but you shall tell me some other time.” 

It isn’t clear to me, either, but I wanted you 


292 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


to tell me, so I wouldn’t feel so bad about Han- 
nibal.” 

‘‘ It is too bad to feel so much troubled about 
Hannibal, but he wasn’t governing the world, 
and he couldn’t expect to have things all his 
own way.” 

“ I suppose I mustn’t read history to-day ?” 
she returned, disappointedly. 

“ I’ll find some history for you. We will read 
about the kings in the Bible ; that is more won- 
derful than English history or about Hannibal. 
Do you know about King Manasseh ?” 

‘‘ No,” said Nomie, eagerly. 

“We will have a good time reading and talk- 
ing about the kings.” 

“And will you talk?” 

“To your heart’s satisfaction. You don’t 
know what Schenck and Sarah say. They 
have given me a holiday in which to take 
care of you. I need not go into the kitchen 
all day. Sarah says you need the tonic of a 
‘ little more Dixie ;’ so you are to shake me up 
and take a tablespoonful of me every hour. And 
don’t you dare to make a face and say I am a 
nauseous dose; if you do. I’ll show you how 
bitter I can be.” 

Nomie threw her arms about her sister and 
laughed. How she had wanted Dixie so many 
times when she was taking care of Aunt Martin 
or busy in the kitchen ! 


COUSINS. 


293 


‘‘Dixie, you will make me well; enough of 
you would make me well, I do believe.” 

“Well, you own all there is of me to own. I 
will be your dog or your slave to-day.” 

“You are my sister, and that’s best of all,” 
declared Nomie, fondly. 

“ I will ask Aunt Martin to let us have 
mother’s Daily Food to-day, and I will read 
you all the notes she has written on the mar- 
gins ; it is full. Mother had it for years — as 
long as I can remember — and she used to read 
it every day.” 

“ Can’t we read it every day ?” asked Nomie. 

“Aunt Martin wants it, and I don’t like to 
say that we want it ; but we can have it to-day, 
I know.” 

“ Whose is it ?”- demanded Nomie. 

“ Yours and mine.” 

David was standing at the window, between 
the curtains, looking out at the snow. Dixie 
had not forgotten that he was there; she and 
Nomie were not in the least afraid of him. 

“ Dixie !” called Aunt Martin’s voice, fretfully. 

Tears of disappointment gathered in Nomie’s 
eyes. 

“ Never mind ; I’ll soon be back,” whispered 
Dixie. “And I’ll bring you Daily Liyht to look 
at until I come back.” 

Nomie eagerly looked through the book. Un- 
der one date she read, “Nomie fell to-day.” The 


294 


DAVID STRONG’S EBBAND. 


date was November 21/’ and the first text was, 
‘‘His dear Son.” The first text was in larger 
type than the remainder of the page; Nomie 
resolved to read all the large type. When she 
thought of how she fell that day, she would re- 
member these words : “ His dear Son.” 

“ Mr. Meredith, come and look, please.” 

David brought a chair to her side and sat 
down, leaning his arm on the arm of her chair 
and looking over the page as she held the book 
in her hand. 

“ Isn’t that a lovely verse for me, Mr. Mere- 
dith ? That was the day I fell off the chair and 
hurt my back ; it has made me sick ever since.” 

“ God loved his dear Son very much, did he 
not?” 

“ Oh yes — dearly,” said Nomie. 

“ And he permitted him to be hurt very many 
times in very many ways. I have been trying 
to read about the crucifixion this morning, and I 
cannot. I turned the leaves ; I could not bear it. 
When you think of how you feel and how you 
may not be very strong as you grow up, you 
have these words to think of with it — ‘ His 
dear Son.’ He loved his Son, and yet he per- 
mitted him to suffer because he loved you.” 

“ Dixie told me about that. And Dixie says — 
she said it this morning in bed — that Christ loves 
me as well as he loved the little girl that died and 
that he brought to life again. There’s something 


COUSINS. 


295 


else written here. See And Nomie read aloud: 
‘‘ ‘ To-day is the birthday of David Meredith 
Strong.’ ” 

He has the same verse that you have, then. 
Who is he?” asked David. 

‘‘ I don’t know ; ask Dixie. The same name 
is in the front, too. Ruth Meredith Strong gave 
the book to my mother.” 

David took the hook from her hand and ex- 
amined the title-page. 

The door was thrown open by Martin Shields : 

^‘Mr. Meredith, I suppose you want to go to 
church to-day ?” 

Yes ; I always go to church.” 

The minister from abroad is going to preach, 
and they all want to go but Sarah. Gilbert says 
he makes you tremble.” 

Are you not going with us ?” 

‘^Ho; I’ll stay home and see to things. There 
will be enough in the sleigh without me.” 

“ Gilbert and I will walk.” 

don’t go nowadays, since Mrs. Shields 
doesn’t go ; I like to have the boys go. Gilbert 
stood up for prayers last night, Joe says ; I 
thought he looked different to-day. I hope he 
will keep on. I don’t want my boys to live my 
life; my example hasn’t been worth following. 
You can all bundle into the big sleigh. It will 
be ready in half an hour.” 

Thank you,” said David as Martin withdrew. 


296 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND, 


Dixie returned after a few moments; Nomie 
laid the book in her hand, opened at the twenty - 
first of November. 

‘‘Read what mother says,” she said. “Mr. 
Meredith wants to know who David Meredith 
Strong is.” 

“Mother’s cousin was Ruth Meredith; she 
married Mr. Strong, mother told me, and this is 
her little boy. He is not a little boy now ; by 
the date mother has put here, he must have been 
nineteen last November. She is dead, but David 
may be living, and his father.” 

“ Mr. Meredith, when is your birthday ?” asked 
Nomie. “ I will find your text.” 

“ Perhaps I am like some ladies, and do not 
like to expose myself; you might next ask me 
the year in which I was born.” 

“ I would like to know,” said Nomie, persua- 
sively. 

“ I will tell Dixie some day,” he said, in a low 
voice. 

Dixie’s eyes leaped up to his ; she flushed and 
paled and caught her breath quickly. 

“ Then Dixie will tell me,” said Nomie, confi- 
dently, taking the book from Dixie’s hand. — 
“Won’t you, Dix?” 

“I tell you everything that is good for you to 
know,” said Dixie. 

“ But this is only like fun ; you don’t have to 
be so serious, Dix.” 


COUSINS. 


297 


Then I will not ; I will be anything to suit 
you to-day.” 

David went back to the contemplation of the 
snow, and Dixie read aloud with Nomie’s head 
upon her shoulder. 

Nomie did not understand much of the read- 
ing, but she loved the sound of Dixie’s voice, and 
the words in themselves made her happy. ‘‘ He 
led them on safely,” Will God in very deed 
dwell with men on the earth?” '‘His name shall 
be in their foreheads,” and " I am the Lord that 
healeth thee,” were among the passages that she 
asked her to read again. 

After David left them they had a lively morn- 
ing reading and talking about the kings of Israel 
and Judah. They were reading about Manasseh 
when Martin came to the doorway that led to his 
wife’s room ; they had heard his voice in the 
room, and Dixie had taken the Daily Light to 
Aunt Martin, asking if Uncle Martin would like 
to read to her. The next Sunday morning how 
rejoicingly, and yet with sorrowful tears. Aunt 
Martin remembered that he had read the Bible 
to her that day ! He had ceased reading some 
time before he came to the doorway. Nomie’s 
words arrested his steps: 

" I can’t understand how it was ; he had such 
a good father, and yet he was the worst king that 
ever was.” 

" He was only twelve when his father died and 


298 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


he became king/’ replied Dixie; ‘^he was too 
young to know much about his father.” 

‘‘He must have known how good he was,” 
persisted Nomie. 

“ What king of England was this ?” inquired 
Martin. 

“ He was king of Judah,” said Naomi, “ and 
the wickedest man that ever did live, I am sure. 
Just hear what he did, Uncle Martin.” 

“ Go on,” encouraged Martin, leaning against 
the casement of the door. 

Nomie took up the Bible and read in an indig- 
nant, excited voice: 

“ ‘And he did that which was evil in the 
sight of the Lord, after the abominations of the 
heathen, whom the Lord cast out before the 
children of Israel.’ ” 

“ What evil things did he do ?” asked Martin. 

“ Do you really want to know?” asked Nomie, 
delightedly. 

“ I do want to know.” 

“They seem all the worse when you think 
about his good father. He built the high 
places to worship idols on, that his father had 
destroyed ; and he must have known his father 
destroyed them. That was one thing he did. 
And he worshiped all the host of heaven, and 
served them ; and I am sure he must have heard 
how his father prayed to the true God that time 
he ’most died he was so sick. ‘And he built 


COUSINS. 


299 


altars for all the host of heaven in the two 
courts of the house of the Lord/ In Solomon’s 
temple, Uncle Martin. How do you suppose he 
dared ? ‘And he made his son pass through the 
fire.’ That was most dreadful of all. That was 
one way he worshiped an idol. And he put a 
graven image in the temple. He made the 
people sin with idols, too. He was wickeder 
than the people that the Lord had cast out of 
the land for worshiping idols, and they didn’t 
have a good father, and he did. And he shed 
innocent blood very much, till he had filled 
Jerusalem from one end to another. I never 
heard of anybody so bad. Did you ever. Uncle 
Martin ?” 

“ No ; I never did. How did he end ?” 

“ He died and was buried,” said Nomie, 
gravely. 

“But I can tell you something comforting 
about him,” said Dixie, taking the Bible from 
her hand. “ See what we find in another place. 
After all this wickedness the Lord spoke to him 
and his people, and they would not hearken; 
then the Assyrians came and took him bound 
in fetters and carried him to Babylon. And 
here comes the comforting part : ‘ And when 
he was in afiliction, he besought the Lord his 
God, and humbled himself greatly before the 
God of his fathers’ — ^he remembered now the 
God his fathers prayed to, Nomie — ‘and prayed 


300 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


UDto him ; and he was entreated of him, and 
heard his supplication, and brought him again 
to Jerusalem into his kingdom. Then Manasseh 
knew that the Lord he was God.’ And after that 
he tried to atone for his wickedness. J ust listen : 
‘And he took away the strange gods, and the idol 
out of the house of the Lord.’ ” 

Nomie interrupted by clapping her hands and 
crying, 

“ Oh, isn’t that splendid 

“ ‘And he sacrificed thank offerings and peace 
offerings to the Lord, and all the people sacrificed 
to God only,’ ” said Dixie. 

“ Was he old when he died?” inquired Martin, 
in a very interested manner. 

“ I don’t know,” answered Dixie. “ His son 
was twenty-two years old when he began to 
reign; so his father must have been quite old.” 

“ I never heard of a life like that, and such a 
repentance,” said Martin. “ I am glad he had a 
chance to show he was in earnest.” 

“Didn’t you ever hear of Manasseh before, 
Uncle Martin?” asked Nomie, in surprise. 

“ No, I never did,” he acknowledged. 

“ I am glad you know now,” she answered as 
he moved away. -i 

Martin was not sure that he was glad. 

The older ones — Schenck, David, Gilbert and 
Miss Abby — returned from the church with very 
serious countenances. David went to the parlor, 


COUSINS. 


301 


Schenck hurried into the kitchen to offer his 
help about dinner, Miss Abby lingered in the 
dining-room to unfasten her bonnet-strings and 
to stoop over and smooth Mischief’s hack as he 
came to her to purr his welcome. 

Martin looked up from the country newspaper, 
then continued reading the advertisement of an 
auction sale; wagons were to be sold, and he 
needed a wagon. 

“ I never heard such a powerful sermon in my 
life. Cousin Martin,” said Miss Abby, with em- 
phasis. wished you were there.” 

‘‘I’ve had a sermon at home,” he answered, 
carelessly. 

“ People who stay home from church always 
say that. But the sanctuary is the place to go 
to; there is where the blessing is promised.” 

“What was your sermon about?” he inter- 
rupted. Miss Abby had “labored” with him on 
the subject of church-going before to-day. 

“ It was about the future state — the place of 
punishment: ‘The wicked shall be turned into 
hell, and all the nations that forget God ’ — not 
the nations that never knew, but the nations that 
forget. That was a new point to me. They that 
know the Lord’s will, and do it not, shall be 
beaten with many stripes — with more stripes 
than those who do not know it, and therefore do 
not do it. But the power for me came with the 
thought that it is God’s love that ordains punish- 


302 


DAVID STRONG’S EBB AND. 


ment for those who will not repent and turn to 
him. They shall be punished for not coming. 
‘ If coaxing and persuading and loving will not 
do/ he says, ‘ I will compel you to come by the 
hell I will show you.’ Christ preached about hell 
because he loved men. You would have pun- 
ished Gilbert to any extent to get him home.” 

sight of hell is enough to make any man 
run from it,” remarked Martin. 

‘‘ And oh the love of God that it shows !” said 
the old woman as with slow steps she left the 
room. 

When Martin’s father had punished him, years 
ago, he had told him that it was out of love. He 
believed in hell and he believed in heaven, and 
yet he sat there reading the list of articles to be 
sold at the auction to-morrow ; and he had not 
gone to church because he would not. 

Coming into the room with a platter of cold 
beef to set on the dinner-table, Schenck stood 
still and looked at the face behind the news- 
paper : 

Cousin Martin, there was a prayer-meeting 
after the preaching, and the young converts 
spoke, and Gilbert got up and spoke. I wish 
you could have heard him.” 

‘H’ve heard such things before,” returned 
Martin, coldly. 

‘‘But you won’t discourage Gilbert?” ventured 
Schenck, timidly. 


COUSINS. 


303 


‘ Discourage him/ cried Martin, angrily. 

What should I discourage him for ? What do 
you take me for ? Am I a heathen or an infidel, 
I’d like to know ?” 

I don’t know,” said Schehck, meekly. 

‘‘ You ought to know by this time,” rejoined 
Martin. ‘‘Abby preaches to me as though I were 
as great a sinner as Manasseh himself.” 

‘‘ Manasseh was pretty bad,” answered Schenck, 
with but a vague idea as to what bad thing Ma- 
nasseh had done. 

There was a happy look about Schenck’s dull 
face that touched Martin; as he moved about 
bringing the chairs to the table he softly sang in 
a cracked voice : 

“ ‘ Here, Lord, I give myself away : 

’Tis all that I can do.’ ” 


Martin despised the weakness, physical and 
mental, of the man who stayed about the house 
and was satisfied in doing woman’s work, but he 
would have given all he possessed to be at peace 
as Schenck was that day. 

David passed the afternoon before the fire in 
his chamber writing to his father and reading 
the New Testament. What a revelation of Jesus 
Christ, and of the Father of Jesus Christ, this 
book had become since that last night at home ! 

Christ, who is the image of God The 
brightness of his glory and the express image 


304 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


of his person;” ‘‘Who is the image of the in- 
visible God.” 

David pondered these words. Man, then, had 
seen God : “ God was manifest in the flesh.” 
With the sweetness and the gravity of these 
thoughts in his heart, he arose from his knees, 
as the twilight had settled in his chamber, and 
went down among the others. It was very pleas- 
ant to be alone in these first days of his new life, 
but his errand was not yet accomplished : he 
must draw his brother to himself and to his 
father. 

As David passed down the stairs the physician 
was leaving Mrs. Shields’s room. He stood in 
the hall, with his hand upon the door-knob; 
seemingly with an impulsive motion, he pushed 
the door open and spoke. He spoke with some 
sharpness, and David heard without listening : 

“I tell you, Mrs. Shields, if you do not do 
something for that child, she will not live a 
year.” 

The weak, whining voice replied, and then the 
doctor shut the door ; he shut it with consider- 
able emphasis. 

“ It isn’t her child,” he muttered, “ but some 
women would nurse a sick dog.” 

As David entered the parlor he saw that the 
door communicating with Mrs. Shields’s room 
was standing open: Dixie, sitting beside her 
sleeping sister, had heard every word. She 


COUSINS. 


305 


seemed turned to stone; her muscles had be- 
come rigid; she had no power to cry out or 
to stir. David softly closed the door and went 
to her; not aware of his presence, she after a 
moment flung herself upon her knees, drop- 
ping her head upon the arm of Nomie’s chair. 

My God ! My God she groaned. 

David touched her shoulder : 

Dixie, I heard that too. But something 
shall be done — everything shall be done. Do 
you not believe me?” 

Yes.” 

‘‘ Sit down again and let me tell you about it.” 

Dixie arose and sat down beside Nomie, lifting 
the child’s hand and taking it into her own. Her 
hands were warm, and she was sleeping quietly 
with her last orange in her lap. 

‘‘Dixie, I am your cousin, David Meredith 
Strong. My birthday is written in that little 
book. I am Nomie’s cousin.” As he spoke he 
bent over and kissed her hair. “When my 
father found my mother, she was a poor girl 
dependent for a home upon your father and 
mother. She had tried to support herself, and, 
not being strong, her little strength failed. Your 
father and mother had given her a home for 
two years ; she had not one cent that they did 
not give her. Do you not think that my father 
will not be more than glad to give your mother’s 
little girl the care and kindness that she gave 
20 


306 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND, 


my mother ? My father is a rich man, and he is 
the dearest father a boy ever had ; Nomie will 
love him as she loves you. Wait till you see her 
sitting in his lap with her head on his bosom and 
his arms around her. Wait till you see her play- 
ing in the warm sand on the seashore and eating 
oranges, and driving, having nothing to do hut 
grow a strong, big girl with round cheeks, and 
with you to see to her food and her bathing and 
her exercises and her pretty dresses. She shall 
have the best medical advice this land can give ; 
and if America does not suit you, she shall go to 
Nassau or farther away. My father cannot do 
enough for you both. He remembers a chubby 
little girl with a queer name — ‘ Dixie.’ ” 

What could Dixie say ? What could she do 
but hold Nomie’s hand fast and sob and sob, 
pouring out all the burden of the last long 
years, all her sorrow and gratitude, in the hap- 
piest tears she had ever shed? 

Nomie started into w^akefulness, and, bewil- 
dered and startled at Dixie’s tears, clung to her, 
crying. 

Oh, Dix, Dix, what is it ?” 

‘‘ Something to laugh about, my little cousin,” 
said David. ‘‘Kiss me and call me ‘Cousin 
David,’ and then I’ll tell you all about it. It is 
my birthday in your book ; I am your cousin, 
David Meredith Strong.” 

How Nomie listened and laughed and made 


COUSINS. 


307 


joyful exclamations ! She was as happy as she 
could be, but her heart was not, like Dixie’s, 
fairly aching with gratitude. Had God known 
about this all the time she had been praying for 
Nomie to be healed ? What lovely secrets he 
knew ! 

‘‘How could I have lived,” said Dixie, “if 
you had not come to help me?” 

“ You did not have to,” returned David. 

“ No,” said Dixie ; “ God had the hurt in one 
hand and the help in the other. I am so glad I 
was not rebellious !” 

“ He is glad too,” said David, “ for now he can 
help you as he wills to.” 

“ Can we tell Aunt Martin ?” inquired Nomie. 
“ She has been afraid our guardian’s family 
would take us away, but she didn’t know mother 
had a cousin.” 

“No; do not tell any one yet — not even Miss 
Abby. I should not have told Dixie to-night, 
but she couldn’t wait any longer. I think she 
guessed something this morning.” 

“ I didn’t dare to guess something,” said Dixie, 

“ You must call me ‘ Mr. Meredith’ a while 
longer ; I hope not for very much longer. I will 
see the doctor in the morning, and find out what 
Nomie needs. You must make her nice things 
every day, Dixie; my father must see some im- 
provement in her cheeks. Ask me for every- 
thing you want — both of you.” 


308 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘^Oranges,” said Nomie. 

‘‘Wait till I come home from town to-mor- 
row/’ 

Nomie laughed aloud. 

“ Dixie — Cousin Dixie — what shall I bring 
you?” 

“ Oranges,” said Dixie. 

“Your turn will come; you cannot resist my 
father.” 

“And you are only nineteen !” said Dixie, dis- 
appointedly. 

“Did you think me older?” 

“I thought you as old as I am.” 

“Are you twenty?” 

“I am twenty-two,” she answered, seriously. 

“ How stricken in years ! But you shall not 
look down upon me if I am like Gilbert in your 
estimation. I have been through college, and I 
am going into business. I may telegraph to my 
father if I find letters are too slow. We shall 
be with him before a month at the longest; 
meanwhile, we will keep Nomie warm and feed 
her well.” 

“ I am almost well now,” said Nomie. 

“ I wish I could give you my warm room, but 
I do not see how I can. — And, Cousin Dixie, 
must you cook my breakfast to-morrow morn- 
ing?” 

“ Do I not cook it well ?” 

“ Suppose I had found you two girls not at all 


COUSINS. 


309 


attractive, ignorant and coarse and unladylike 
and unlovable; what should I have done? It 
would still have been my duty to take you to my 
father, but I suspect I would have let him take 
all the duty upon himself. Now, if I haven’t 
two cousins to be proud of, then I don’t know 
who has.” 

I am so uncultivated !” sighed Dixie. 

Dixie, I never saw a more perfect lady than 
you are ; you are gentle, you are quiet, you are 
sweet, you are self-possessed. You shall have 
teachers, you shall learn to play the piano, you 
shall have books. You are a Christian lady, 
Dixie Herbert.” 

^‘So she is,” said Nomie. ^‘Am I nice too, 
Mr. Meredith ?” she asked, anxiously. 

You are a bright little girl, and you shall not 
study at all ; you shall have books, but they shall 
amuse you and rest you. You must not let my 
father spoil you ; but I think there is no danger : 
you have borne the yoke in your youth.” 

want to tell you a story I have been think- 
ing of,” said Dixie. What we want does some- 
times come too late. I remember something that 
happened when we lived in New York. One day 
the bell rang, and I went to the door ; there stood 
a lady all in black, with a widow’s ruche inside 
her bonnet, and a long black veil. On her arm 
she carried a basket; and when she lifted the 
cover, I saw laces and collars and cuffs, and such 


310 


DAVID STBONG’S EBEAND. 


things. She asked me to buy, but I asked her 
into the front parlor and called mother. After 
a while mother called me and asked me to bring 
a cup of tea and some sandwiches. After she 
was gone mother told me the lady’s story. She 
was an English girl, and she had run away from 
home and married a young surgeon against her 
mother’s and father’s wish. She had lived in good 
style at home, and had just left school. They 
came to America, but he was not able to support 
her as she had been supported; he took care of 
her as well as he could until he was taken ill. 
They had so little money that it was soon gone ; 
they were living in one room in a teneinent- 
house. When he was very low, he wanted beef- 
steak — just a taste, rare and juicy; but she had 
no money to buy it, and he longed for it day 
after day. At last she earned the money in some 
way, and bought it, and cooked it for him just as 
he liked it ; but he turned away : he could not 
taste it. It was too late.” Dixie finished her 
story through her tears. Sometimes things do 
come too late,” she said. 

Did you ever see her again ?” asked Nomie. 

Oh yes, several times. Mother suggested 
something for her to do, and she called to see 
mother and to say she was successful. I met her 
one day in the street on my way to school ; I 
was too bashful to speak to her, though.” 

“ Your mother had a way of being kind. She 


COUSINS. 


311 


did not know that her kindness to my mother 
was laying up a legacy for her daughters.” 

‘‘I am too happy to behave properly,” said 
Dixie ; my face is burning. What will they 
think?” 

They will think we are happy,” said Nomie. 

‘‘ Dixie ! Dixie !” called Aunt Martin. 

Dixie hurried to her. 

‘‘ I am here all in the dark ; nobody thinks 
about me since Gilbert came home and you have 
made a boarder of Mr. Meredith. I know it is 
time for me to take my medicine. Sarah will 
not know how to get supper without you. Give 
Nomie plenty of supper and plenty of milk that 
isn’t skimmed ; the doctor says you must take 
good care of her, and he was angry when I said 
we did the best we could. Sarah said you were 
having a holiday to-day, and I shall be glad 
when it is over, for I know things haven’t gone 
straight to-day.” 

Dixie laughed. Such a light-hearted laugh ! 
To-morrow was washing-day, but she would be 
as happy as she wanted to be even although 
washing-day should come every day in the 
week. Nomie would have oranges and beef-tea 
to-morrow, and by and by — Did her mother 
know it? Would she know, before Dixie went 
to heaven to tell her, of the legacy that she had 
laid up for her children — the legacy that was 
better than money? 


312 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


“ Dixie, how you look !” exclaimed Schenck 
at supper-time. 

How do I look she asked. 

“Like — ^like sunshine,” he said, with some 
confusion. 

“ That is just what I feel like. Will you have 
another cup of tea?” 

“A holiday does you good,” remarked Sarah. 
“ When did you have your last one ?” 

“ Before Aunt Martin was sick,” said Dixie ; 
“ one day Nomie and I went to Miss Abby’s and 
stayed all day.” 

“And Christmas Day, too,” remembered No- 
mie. 

“You shall have another, Dixie,” promised 
Uncle Martin, kindly, “if this is what makes 
you look like sunshine.” 

“And I’ll stay and keep house,” said Sarah. 
“Where do you want to go, Dixie? I don’t 
believe you have a friend in the world to take 
you in for a week.” 

Nomie laughed. It was too fanny! 

“I will,” said Miss Abby. “Come to me, 
Dixie.” 

“You would be like the widow with her hand- 
ful of meal, Abby,” replied Sarah. 

“ It was rather hard for her to have company 
just then,” said Dixie; “I have never thought 
of her side of the story. She had a son to feed, 
too. It would be very hard for me to feed a 


COUSINS. 


313 


prophet if I had only enough for one day for 
Nomie. In time of famine, too ! Why doesn’t 
somebody rise up and call that woman a 
heroine ?” 

“ I think you have risen up,” said David. 

“ It does strike me so ! What a picture that 
is! The poor woman gathering sticks to hake 
the last cake for herself and her son, expecting 
to eat it and die, and that strange old man com- 
ing to her and begging the little that she had for 
himself before she could feed her son. He made 
her a wonderful promise, but how did she know 
he spoke the truth ? Would we believe it if a 
stranger should speak such a wonderful promise 
to us ?” 

“ Queer things happened in those days,” re- 
plied Sarah. 

“Was that the reason she believed another 
queer thing would happen?” asked Naomi. 

“It was a good reason,” said Uncle- Martin. 

“I wish I knew the reason,” said Nomie. “I 
believe you know, Miss Abby; your eyes look 
so.” 

“ I know a reason that satisfies me,” said Miss 
Abby, setting down her tea-cup. “The Lord, 
when he told Elijah to go to Zarephath, told 
him that he had commanded a widow- woman 
there to sustain him, and I think the Lord’s 
command to her beforehand was the reason she 
believed Elijah.” 


314 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


‘‘That’s a good reason,” said Nomie. 

“ I’m afraid it would have taken that to make 
me do it,” said Dixie^.” 

“ I don’t see why it shouldn’t,” replied Miss 
Abby, quickly ; “ we are not to go blindly ahead 
without command. Faith isn’t believing non- 
sense; faith is believing with evidence.” 

“That’s good!” observed Martin, heartily; 
“it’s the best thing you ever said, Abby.” 

“And I didn’t say that, I suspect; I read it 
somewhere,” said Miss Abby, frankly. 

The tall parlor-lamp stood in the middle of the 
table to-night; the tablecloth was as white as 
Dixie’s bleaching could make it; the old-fash- 
ioned dishes were prettily arranged; there was 
a profusion of good things — cold meat, honey, 
apple-sauce, cookies and ginger-snaps, cheese 
and perfect bread and butter, besides an excel- 
lent cup of tea. Dixie was not ashamed of the 
table to-night. What a difference that dollar a 
day did make! Martin was willing to be just to 
his boarder. It did not require so much to be 
just to Schenck, as he paid but three dollars a 
week. Schenck would have had nothing to com- 
plain of if he could have paid board sufficient to 
have a fire in his chamber. Sometimes he won- 
dered if his work about the house did not “make 
up” for that, but he was the last one to suggest it. 
His room was very cold to kneel long in, and he 
loved to kneel a good while; like Daniel, he 


COUSINS. 


315 


prayed three times a day, and often, like David, 
made supplication seven times a day. What else 
did he have to keep him from being discouraged 
and willing to lie down and die ? He watched 
Dixie to-night every time she spoke, hoping that 
some chance word might explain the cause of 
that sudden sunshine. Mr. Meredith and Nomie 
seemed to share it, or did their faces reflect hers 
because she looked at them so often ? Schenck 
prided 'himself upon discovering a mystery as 
soon as anybody. 

‘‘ I must go home to-morrow,’’ said Miss Abby. 
“Mischief and I have made a long stay. — Anna 
is coming to see me, Dixie ; I told her to-day in 
Sunday-school that I had something good to say 
to her.” 

“That is delightful,” cried Dixie. “Before 
Sarah lets me go off on my holiday I want to 
see you settled.” 

“That is what makes you so bright, then,” 
exclaimed Schenck, in the tone of one making 
a discovery. “What do you think we shall do?” 

“You can’t have Dixie always,^'' said Nomie, 
jealously. 

Schenck was beginning to feel that he could 
not have Dixie always ; he had had her so long 
— since she was a little girl fifteen years old in 
a black dress and with two long yellow braids. 
How could he do without her, especially since 
Christmas Day, when she had kissed his old 


316 


DA VID STRONG ’S EBEAND. 


bald head ? No one in the world cared for 
him, and he had hoped that she did — a little. 
He was not too old to dream dreams, and one of 
them was — the wildest that he had ever dreamed 
— if Cousin Sylvie should die, Dixie might keep 
house for him some day. How or where he had 
not dreamed yet, but it was to be in some way 
that he could keep Dixie near him. Now this 
stranger had come, and she seemed — He did 
not know how she seemed, but the stranger was 
young like her, and handsome like her, and they 
seemed to understand each other. 

I suppose Dixie would have believed Elijah 
if he had been like Mr. Meredith here,’’ he said, 
with some sharpness in his weak voice. 

“Mr. Meredith gives; he doesn’t take,” an- 
swered Nomie, while the others laughed. “ He is 
going to bring me some oranges to-morrow.” 

“I think Elijah gave,^’ said Miss Abby. “Who 
knows if that handful of meal would have in- 
creased if it hadn’t been for him ?” 


XVII. 

David's Brother. 

I T was Wednesday afternoon, and Dixie was 
ironing at the kitchen-table; the sunshine 
was still in her eyes. Nomie was perched on 
a high stool near her, reading aloud from her 
old English history; if Dixie assented to some 
remark once in a while, Nomie would read on 
contentedly. 

It was late in the afternoon, nearly sunset; 
the red glow would soon be in the sky and on 
the snow. As Mr. Meredith passed through 
the kitchen early in the afternoon he had 
whispered to her, 

I have a letter from my father ; to-night I 
shall tell Mr. Shields who I am. No more mys- 
tery ; your good times shall begin to-morrow. 
My father sends two or three messages to you." 

Dixie’s face was her only answer, as Schenck 
and Sarah were both in the kitchen ; Schenck’s 
face clouded as David bent over her. With all 
his meekness and loveliness, Schenck was as 
human as anybody, and he almost envied the 
tall, strong fellow his youth and strength and 

317 


318 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


future. No one had made a future for him, 
and he had not had mind enough to make a 
future for himself. Sarah laughed as David 
went out, and asked Dixie why he had not 
spoken aloud. 

It was rude for him to whisper,” confessed 
Dixie, ‘‘and it is not like him to be rude.” 

“ He has gone to the mill-pond,” said Schenck ; 
“ he said he was going when Mr. Johnson’s team 
came back. And I don’t see what he goes for, 
when he don’t have to. He wasn’t so pleased 
with getting ice at first. They have had to get 
the snow off, and it isn’t much fun to he there.” 

Dixie ironed all the afternoon ; the winter’s 
afternoon was not long, and the sunset began to 
flame in the sky before the last article was placed 
upon the clothes-horse. As she stood alone in 
the kitchen — Nomie had left her to take a glass 
of milk to Aunt Martin — Joe burst into the 
kitchen, speaking out of breath : 

“ Dixie, father’s been ’most drowned. Mr. 
Meredith got him out ; he’s in the mill. Have 
Mr. Meredith’s room ready to put him in.” 

“ Schenck !” called Dixie as soon as she could 
speak. Schenck was putting wood into the 
dining-room stove. “Come and help me. Get 
Sarah out here. And don’t let anybody tell 
Aunt Martin yet.” 

“Somebody went for the doctor,” said Joe. 

“Could he speak?” asked Dixie. 


DAVID BROTHER. 


319 


‘‘No, and he looked dreadful,’’ said Joe, for 
the first time beginning to cry. 

David told Dixie about it that night. He had 
stood on the pond as the two old slow horses 
struggled up the ascent with their heavy load; 
Gilbert was to follow his father with Mr. John- 
son’s team, and was putting the last block of ice 
on the sled as his father drove up the hill. Two 
of the men belonging to the mill had come out to 
see the last loads drive off. The bank at one place 
was very steep, and down that steep bank, with a 
crash over the crust of the snow, David had seen 
Martin slip, then roll to the edge of the stream ; 
and with a shriek that rang through the air he had 
broken through the ice and gone under. It was 
all done in a second. They watched, spellbound ; 
Martin had scarcely disappeared before David 
dashed forward, followed by Gilbert and the men 
from the mill. It had been but the work of an 
instant; the thought came like the inspiration 
that it was. Almost before he had time to plan it 
David’s overcoat was off and thrown to his bro- 
ther ; he had ventured as near as the crackling ice 
would bear him, and he had called to Martin to 
seize it and hold on to it, while at the same time 
he threw himself at full length upon the ice and 
shouted to the men to catch hold of his legs and 
drag him. The bare white head appeared, the 
arms were thrown out ; with a long pull and a 
strong pull, as both David and Martin clung to 


320 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


the overcoat as for life, Martin was drawn out, 
and the two were dragged over the snow-covered 
ice to the bank. Martin was taken into the mill; 
he was able to speak before he was taken home, 
and to explain that his hat had blown off and he 
had gone to the edge of the bank for it ; his foot 
had slipped and he had fallen. The doctor ar- 
rived and examined him, yielding to his entrea- 
t.es that he might be taken home instead of into 
the miller’s house. 

‘‘Don’t let my wife be frightened,” he had 
said. 

To David’s inquiries the physician had replied 
that time only could tell how he was injured; it 
might be very serious — very serious indeed: he 
was not a young man, and had been hurt in 
breaking through the ice. Still, he had a good 
constitution and it was quite possible that he 
might pull through. 

“ If he had a friend that must see him before 
he died, would you send for him ?” 

“ I would telegraph to-night.” 

David told Dixie that he had sent a tele- 
gram to his father by a man who was going 
to town. 

“ To your father ?” said Dixie, in surprise. 

“ Dixie, Martin is my brother — ^the brother I 
came to find for my father.” 

Too much bewildered to ask a question, Dixie 
waited ; with strong tears, for the young man had 


DAVID’S BROTHER. 


321 


kept his self-control until this moment, he told 
her the story as he had heard it from his father. 

‘‘You know all the rest,’’ he said; “to-night 
I was to tell my brother about my father.” 

“ I didn’t know there was such a father in the 
world,” said Dixie. 

“It has not been as I planned; it seems to 
have planned itself. But I should not say that ; 
it is planned for us. I have thought night and 
night about the hour that was to come, saying 
this and saying that, and imagined the scene 
again and again, and now I must tell him when 
he cannot fully understand: he may never he 
himself enough to understand how much my 
father has forgiven and how he loves him. I 
have not been wise; I have not spoken when I 
might. I might have told him about my father 
— about his father ; I might have tried to love 
him ; I might have been more with him ; I might 
have won him to love me. It is all a disappoint- 
ment to me; I have failed in everything. I was 
not worthy to be sent; I have been selfish, lov- 
ing my own ease — ” 

Dixie interrupted the flow of contrition, laying 
her hand on his arm. 

“ Cousin David,” she said, for the first time, 
“ you are excited ; you do not understand your- 
self. You have been very unselfish, or you would 
not be here at a]l. I never saw him like any one 
as he likes you ; he listens when you speak, and 
21 


322 


DAVID STEONG’S ERRAND. 


he does not usually care at all for what people 
say. Who saved his life to-night?’’ 

“Any one could have done that,” said David. 

“ But no one did do it but you. Your father 
will not let you reproach yourself.” 

At midnight David sat before the fire in his 
chamber ; the only light in the room came from 
the fire upon the hearth. Schenck was dozing 
in his chair at the bedside. 

“ Schenck !” 

Schenck was on his feet in an instant. 

“ Did you hear him say that ?” 

“ Say what ?” asked Schenck. 

“Did I dream it? I want it to be true,” 
Martin moaned. 

“ What did he say ?” 

“He said — I heard it — ‘Martin, Martin! I 
must save you. You are my brother F ” 

“No, you dreamed it; he did not say it,” re- 
plied Schenck. 

“ I never had a brother,” said Martin, feebly. 

Schenck sat down again. Martin closed his 
eyes. David came to the back of the chair and 
whispered something. 

“No,” said Schenck; “you must sleep to- 
night. There will be another night for you. 
Gilbert will stay with me.” 

“Is Gilbert home? Has he come?” asked 
Martin, excitedly, opening hig eyes with a 
startled look. 


DAVID'S BROTHER. 


323 


Yes, Gilbert is home. Don’t you remember 
bow be came?” said Scbenck, soothingly. 

How is Sylvie ? Is sbe frightened ?” were 
his next quick words. 

No ; Dixie has put her to sleep. Everybody 
is comfortable ; do go to sleep,” coaxed Scbenck, 
gently patting his arm as he would have patted 
the arm of a little baby. Scbenck loved babies 
and sick people. 

“ What did the doctor say ?” 

He said he would come to-morrow,” replied 
Schenck, cautiously. 

‘‘ What else?” he persisted. 

“ That you must keep quiet and warm.” 

“ Did he say I was hurt much ?” 

“ He doesn’t know,” evaded Schenck. 

“ They never know,” he cried, irritably; “they 
are all idiots. — Mr. Meredith, what are you stand- 
ing there for ?” 

“ I am going to sit beside you if Mr. Savage 
will give me his chair.” 

Schenck arose and moved softly to the fire. 
As the light fell on his brother’s face, David was 
startled at the growing resemblance to his father. 

“ I dreamed you said — you said — ” His lips 
moved. 

David could not catch the words. Would it 
excite him too much to tell him? Would it 
increase the fever? Must he wait and let his 
father tell the story ? He sat down, leaned back 


324 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and closed his eyes ; dared he undertake such a 
responsibility? 

The light from the fire was very pleasant ; the 
wood crackled and snapped ; the wind sounded 
like a March night ; all the house was still. 

‘‘Mr. Meredith, talk to me, read to me; put 
me to sleep somehow.’’ 

“ I will tell you a story,” said David, impul- 
sively — “a true story about my father and his 
son that wronged him and ran away.” 

Schenck softly tiptoed toward the door. 

“ Call me if you want me, Mr. Meredith,” he 
whispered; “I must see to something down 
stairs.” 

David told his story in a low, unexcited tone ; 
he described his father and his father’s love for 
the youth who would not listen to him ; he gave 
the story of the boy’s misdoings and his running 
away, his father’s anxiety and all the means he 
took to learn of the boy’s whereabouts, his 
finally giving him up and settling quietly into 
the belief that he was dead. Martin listened 
with his eyes closed, asking no questions ; 
David paused, and he said, impatiently, 

“Go on!” 

David lightly touched upon his father’s second 
marriage and his own birth ; Martin frowned and 
pressed his lips together. And then David told 
the story of the night when his father made 
known to him that his brother was alive. 


DAVID^S BROTHER. 


325 


‘‘ Martin, Martin, my brother he cried, fall- 
ing on his knees beside the bed ; “ I have come 
to tell you that your father wants you to come 
home.” 

Tears were falling over Martinis rough cheeks ; 
sobs were in his throat. He lifted his hand, and 
David took it and held it pressed to his breast. 

‘‘ Don’t speak, Martin ; don’t try to say any- 
thing,” said David, controlling his voice. ‘^We 
will talk about it another time.” 

‘‘ I cannot — cannot — go to him,” said Martin, 
faintly. 

“ But he can come to you,” said David, joy- 
fully. ‘‘ Keep quiet and get well, and he will 
come to you. I sent a telegram to-night; he will 
be on his way in the morning.” 

Had it not excited the wounded man? Was 
his self-control so perfect, or was he too weak to 
understand? Had his own cry on the ice re- 
vealed it to him ? 

Martin did not open his eyes, or attempt to 
speak further; he did not seem bewildered, he 
asked no questions ; but he was restless, his fever 
became higher, and before daylight he was slight- 
ly delirious. 

Whether well or ill, David’s errand was done; 
it was too late now to have any misgivings. When 
Gilbert came to take his place with Schenck, 
David went to the room next to the store-room, 
threw himself upon the bed and fell into a heavy 


326 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


sleep. In his dreams, as he began to sleep more 
lightly, he repeated, 

“ Hast thou errands to be done ? 

Here am I ! O Lord, send me.” 

And in his dream he wept that his work was so 
ill done. How could God or his father be satis- 
fied with him? 

In the morning, awaking refreshed, he was 
more hopeful; he had obeyed — he had obeyed 
with the spirit of obedience : the issue of his 
obedience was in his father’s hand, not in his 
own. 


XVIII. 

Aunt Martin Expostulates. 

“V OU needn’t talk and try to reason with me,” 

A cried Aunt Martin, excitedly; ‘‘I am as 
calm as I ever was in my life, and as able to look 
facts in the face. Of course you are on his side, 
but I am on my husband’s side. If I undertook 
to do a thing, I wouldn’t up and spoil it as he has 
spoiled this. To put it off until he was too sick 
to understand, and then to put him into a delir- 
ium by telling him ! Of course he has been 
worse. Who wouldn’t be ? I am worse myself 
since you told me this morning ; my back has 
been splitting, and my head has been snapping 
like a wood-fire.” 

‘‘ But, Aunt Martin, he could not make him- 
self known until his father was willing, and the 
letter had just come ; and he was to tell him that 
night, any way. He did tell him on the ice.” 

When he was drowning ! A pretty time to 
tell him then !” 

‘^He would have been drowned if it hadn’t 
been for David ; there was so little time to think, 
and he was under the ice.” 


327 


328 


DAVID STRONG *S ERRAND. 


You needn’t bring all that up to me. I have 
gone through enough. What with the shock and 
his getting worse, and my not being able to do 
anything for him, or even to be in the room and 
give orders, and not sleeping any or being able to 
eat, I am in that state of nervousness that I don’t 
know what I am talking about half the time. 
You don’t stay with me; you let Sarah do things 
for me, and you make beef-tea for Nomie and 
think of all the others but me. And now this 
astounding news comes on top of everything. 
Will the old man — ^he must be a very old man — 
want to come and live with us ? I wonder if he 
has saved enough to pay his board ? I don’t see 
where we can put him to sleep; if we give him 
the spare-room, we sha’n’t have any room to 
spare in the house if anybody comes ; and I’ve 
always had a spare-room.” 

Was this the end of Aunt Martin’s narrow, 
selfish life ? With her husband up stairs hang- 
ing between life and death, with his old father, 
whom he had so bitterly wronged, coming to him 
to forgive and be reconciled, had she no thought 
but of the old father being a burden, no anxiety 
save the ruling one of being a good housekeeper 
and having a ‘‘spare-room” for company? Would 
years of a narrow, selfish life sharpen one’s sym- 
pathies down to such a point as this? 

“ To be in the house a whole week and not tell 
us who he was! To be a spy spying out the 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES. 


329 


nakedness of the land! You can't explain it, 
Dixie Herbert, for it can't be explained. Why 
didn't he go away and not tell Mr. Shields about 
his father ? I don't know but that we would all 
have been better off. Mr. Shields hasn't seen 
him for so long that he can't have much feeling 
for him now; and I suppose he is old and feeble, 
and can't wait much on himself. We have feeble 
people enough around. Why didn't he send for 
him before ? What did he wait forty years for ? 
He might have left him in peace now. I suppose 
he wants a home, and has heard that his son has 
a good farm. Some folks think a farm is every- 
thing and can support everybody. I'm sure I 
don't know where you will put him, Dixie. Do 
you suppose he wants to stay long? If Mr. 
Meredith — ‘David' you call him — can pay his 
board, I suppose his father can. When I heard 
that fine story of his coming to find his brother, 
I thought it was somebody like Gilbert ; I didn't 
know it would make us any trouble. A pretty 
one this Meredith was to send on such an errand ! 
Why didn't he come forward at once like a man 
and speak out, and not talk in enigmas ? Mr. 
Shields was ready enough any day to be for- 
given. And I thought his father was dead and 
it was all over and it would all be made right 
in the next world, somehow." 

“ Wouldn't you rather that it should be made 
right in this ?" asked Dixie, indignantly. 


330 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


‘‘Wouldn’t you rather be forgiven before you 
die?” 

“ I don’t see the need of all this time about it, 
telling him and making him out of his head and 
talking wild about it ; and the doctor will know 
and tell the neighbors, and all the village will 
know my name isn’t ‘ Shields,’ and know that 
my husband did something dreadful. It isn’t 
very pleasant for me to have things spread 
abroad. Nobody thinks of me. I shall be dis- 
graced in my old age, and none of my family 
ever did a disgraceful thing. I thought it was 
bad enough for Gilbert to disgrace me besides 
stealing my money, but this is ten times worse, 
because it’s the name I bear — or the name I 
don’t bear. I feel like hiding my head under 
the bedclothes and never looking any one in the 
face. I don’t want to get well now ; I don’t care 
if I never get out of bed again as long as. I live !” 

The tears were rolling down Aunt Martin’s 
weak face, but Dixie was not pitiful : she was 
indignant. Her standpoint was truth and love 
and honor ; she was rejoicing over Uncle Mar- 
tin’s repentance and over his old father’s joy. 
The shame was in the sin, and now with the 
repentance had come the honor. 

“Aunt Martin, you do not seem to have any 
heart at all ; you have no gratitude to David or 
to his father. His father need not have sent for 
him at all ; Uncle Martin had forfeited all claim 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES. 


331 


to any sonship. It is all love and mercy and 
forgiveness. He has not taken the first step 
toward his father, and his father is coming to 
him.’’ 

How can he go to his father when he is sick 
in bed? You are very unreasonable. He would 
have gone while Gilbert was away if he had had 
to crawl on his hands and knees.” 

‘‘ That is what his father sent David to learn. 
He knew Uncle Martin was alive and well, but 
he wanted to learn his heart toward him — if he 
remembered him and were penitent, and if he 
wanted to be forgiven ; and how could David 
learn that in one day? Uncle Martin’s father 
had a right to know how he felt toward him ; 
how else could he know how to approach him? 
He wanted to understand him, and David could 
not understand him to his father’s satisfaction by 
the reports of the neighbors. You know you 
would not be willing for David to take such a 
report as that to his father. The neighbors do 
not see the good in Uncle Martin : they see only 
the hard outside. And David has found the soft 
place in his heart and written to his father about 
it. Uncle Martin liked David from the first, and 
treated him with more consideration than I ever 
knew him to treat any hired man.” 

‘‘That’s another thing. What did he have to 
come as a hired man for ?” 

“ How else could he come ?” 


332 


DAVID STRONG^ S ERRAND, 


“ He might have asked hoard.” 

Uncle Martin would have refused that if he 
had asked it on Christmas night, when we were 
all in so much trouble.” 

‘‘His father might have known that he re- 
membered him without going through all this 
rigmarole to find out ; a man must be inhuman 
to forget his father.” 

“ He had been inhuman, then, for he had for- 
gotten him. And another thing : David wanted 
to show him how in earnest he and his father 
were ; he was willing to leave his pleasant home, 
where he had nothing hard to do, and come here 
and live as we do this cold winter, and work 
besides. It would have been so much easier to 
sit in a comfortable chair in his lovely home and 
write a letter: that would not have cost him 
much ; but he wanted to come and show Uncle 
Martin his father’s heart toward him ; how deep- 
ly his father loved him.” 

“ ‘ His lovely home’ !” repeated Aunt Martin, 
lifting herself up in bed. “ Did you say he had 
a lovely home ?” 

“ Does that make any difference to you V* 
asked Dixie, scornfully. 

“ Isn’t he poor ? Won’t he have to come and 
live with us ?” 

“That is another thing, too. David wanted 
to see if he loved his father and were willing to 
find him any way, even if he were poor and 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES. 


333 


needed to be supported. You are not willing 
to find him any way.’’ 

‘‘He isn’t my father,” said Aunt Martin, 
shortly. “I don’t want to be cumbered with 
my husband’s poor relations; it is enough to 
have two of my own.” 

How the blood tingled through Dixie’s veins I 
Had the service of these seven long years been 
no payment at all? Were she and Nomie only 
“ poor relations” ? 

“ Oh, Dixie, I didn’t mean that. Don’t look 
so angry at me. I am so nervous this morning 
I don’t fully know what I am talking about.” 

“ You have been very kind to us. Aunt Mar- 
tin,” said Dixie, her voice trembling with strong 
feeling, “ and you do not mean to hurt me ; but 
I think we have not been dependent upon you 
all these seven years, for I have served you as 
faithfully as I knew how.” 

“ So you have, Dixie — so you have ; and I am 
sorry I said it. Don’t let Sarah Harper put it 
into your head to go away ; and when times are 
better, and if the cold hasn’t destroyed the 
peaches, you shall have more next summer.” 

“ I do not want more. I have not worked for 
what you have given me : I have wanted to be 
faithful.” 

“If that old man comes, it will make more 
work for you.” 

“ I shall love to work for him ; I cannot do 


334 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


enough for him. He will not be a burden to 
you, Aunt Martin. He is very rich, and the 
reason he sent David to find out all about 
Uncle Martin was that he wanted to know if 
he could be trusted with money: he did not 
want him to inherit his money if he were the 
spendthrift he was when he ran away.’’ 

‘ Rich’ !” Aunt Martin repeated, startled — 
“ ‘ very rich’ ! How rich ?” 

“I do not know; David could not tell me, 
because he does not know himself. But he 
knows that his father has a fortune for Uncle 
Martin if he is worthy of it and will make a 
good master to those that labor under him.” 

‘‘And that is what will come to Mr. Shields 
if he will go back to his father and take his 
father’s name again ! I do not wonder Mr. 
Meredith was prudent and waited to find him 
out. T don’t suppose our house is good enough 
for him to come to.” 

“ It was too good for him when you thought 
he was poor,” said Dixie, with returning indig- 
nation. “ I didn’t think such a thing of you. 
Aunt Martin. Now you know about the money, 
you do not blame David at all.” 

“He had to be prudent where there was money 
at stake.” 

“ That isn’t all there was at stake. Aunt Mar- 
tin. If he had been poor, wouldn’t you have 
taken him in?” 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES, 


335 


‘^Wasn’t I willing to? Only I didn’t want 
to give him the best room in the house,” she 
answered, sharply. 

‘‘Mr. Meredith had Frank’s garret the first 
night ; it makes me ashamed every time I think 
of it,” said Dixie, coloring — “a dirty bed and 
snow on the fioor.” 

“How soon can Mr. — what’s his name? — ^get 
here?” asked Aunt Martin. 

“His name is ‘Strong;’ Uncle Martin’s real 
name is ‘Strong.’ He may get here to-mor- 
row ; David hopes so. He is in Florida ; David 
came here from Florida.” 

“ He found a change,” said Aunt Martin ; ‘' the 
old man will find this house cold enough.” 

“ You will sit up to see him?” said Dixie, per- 
suasively. 

“ Must I ? I don’t like to see strangers. Tell 
him I am not strong enough to see him,” she said, 
pleadingly. 

Poor Aunt Martin I How ill fitted she was for 
the change, for any change — even for the change 
of sitting up and taking a step ! Shattered and 
broken, she sank back among her pillows trem- 
bling. 

“I want to go up stairs,” she cried, sobbing; 
“I want to see my husband and take care of 
him. He calls for me, and I cannot go.” 

“ Poor auntie !” said Dixie, taking her hands 
and rubbing them. “I will brush your hair a 


336 


DAVID JSTBONG’S EBBAND. 


long time, and you will go to sleep, and wake 
up so rested/' 

Stay with me, Dixie ; don't you go. Don't 
let Sarah persuade you to go." 

“Not to-day," said Dixie, smiling with her 
eyes full of tears; “ I have written to Mrs. Pres- 
cott that I will not go to her. Poor auntie ! you 
mustn't be sorrowful: you must he comforted. 
Think how happy Uncle Martin will be to see 
his father again, and to know that he forgives 
him." 

“ Is he getting worse ? Does the doctor think 
so? He will not tell me. He says he is doing 
as well as can be expected." 

“He is not any better; he is very weak to- 
day. The injury is in his lung." 

“That is a bad place," said Aunt Martin. 

Under the magnetism of Dixie's skillful fin- 
gers Aunt Martin's weary old heart found rest 
in sleep. She was so old and feeble, and she 
had so little comfort when life brought unex- 
pected changes ! Parely had Dixie kissed her : 
her pretty face was not “kissable;" but before 
she laid down the pale, nerveless hands she had 
been rubbing she bent over to press her lips to 
them — to one, and then to the other. They were 
honest, hard-working hands ; they had worked 
faithfully for her husband and his boys even if 
they had never caressed them. Gilbert did not 
remember that they had ever been laid on his 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES, 337 

head or on his shoulder in the loving way that 
some mothers have, but he might remember what 
good pies they had made and how they had kept 
his buttons on. Yet the good pies and the but- 
tons kept on did not allure him homeward. She 
would have said that her hands were made for 
work, and not for petting; yet who made them 
so ? Aunt Martin said she was as she was made, 
but, like you and me, she had made, and was 
making, herself. She was over her threescore 
years and ten, but she was not finished yet. 
Again, like you and me, she has all eternity to 
be finished in. 

Dixie stood looking at her as she lay asleep. 
The flush of fever was in her cheeks and the 
short hair curled over her forehead; her face 
was quiet : her sorrows did not take very deep 
hold. When she had talked herself out, she had 
usually suffered herself out. 

Dixie looked at her in the light of leaving her. 
It would be very hard to go; the devotion in 
Dixie’s nature was such that she could be devoted 
to any living thing that had need of her. She 
would have cared for a sick dog as tenderly as 
some unmotherly mothers care for their children. 
But it was not all nature : there was much grace 
in it. What true love is all nature ? Aunt Mar- 
tin would miss her every hour; some one might 
be a better nurse than Dixie, but it would not 
be Dixie. She loved her husband as well as she 


22 


338 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


could love anybody, but Dixie’s ministrations 
were more essential to her comfort, therefore 
Dixie was more to her. She turned to Dixie 
as a sick child turns to its mother; she would 
miss her as an un weaned child would miss its 
mother. There was something in Dixie’s youth 
and vitality that strengthened her; there was 
something in Dixie’s hopefulness that upheld 
her; there was something in Dixie’s faith that 
made good things sure. Dixie’s laugh was a 
cordial; there was magnetism in the touch of 
her hand. 

Dixie felt all this as she stood there looking 
down at the old woman. She did not think it : 
she did not know how to think it ; she did not 
know how to think that her youth and her 
healthful beauty and her good spirits ” praised 
the Lord. Aunt Martin’s kitchen had been her 
gymnasium ; to the old doctor, as she stood there 
and he came to the door and looked in, she was 
the perfection of physical beauty : “ So strong 
and well proportioned ! such circulation ! and 
such color !” The doctor nodded and went 
away; sleep was better for his patient down 
stairs than a visit from him. 

Still, Dixie stood as if fascinated, looking at 
the sleeping face, dreading the farewells that 
must be spoken. She had written a brief note 
to Mrs. Prescott, thanking her again for her 
kindness, and saying that she and Nomie had 


AUNT MARTIN EXPOSTULATES. 


339 


found a home with relatives at a distance; it was 
most unexpected and as delightful as unexpected. 
If she never saw Mrs. Prescott again, she would 
never forget her face or her kindness. She had 
shown the note to David, timidly asking if it 
were ‘‘good enough.” 

“Not one mistake in grammar or spelling,” he 
laughed ; “ you can’t ask any more of a graduate 
of a young ladies’ college.” 

David’s laugh had come back to him in the 
last day or two ; Dixie began to feel that he was 
only nineteen. 

“ Poor Aunt Martin !” sighed Dixie as she laid 
an extra covering over her feet. “ God keep me 
from growing old like you !” 

To-day, as she lay there with her thoughts 
centred in herself and in her own physical com- 
fort, Aunt Martin was the woman that she began 
to be sixty years ago. Her thrift had degenerated 
into miserliness ; regard for herself had become 
intense selfishness ; even her desire for everlast- 
ing life had begun and continued in the hope of 
being saved from everlasting punishment. She 
had not gone on to love of Christ and desire for 
his glory. 

“ Dixie,” said Sarah, meeting her at the door, 
“ you were up all last night ; and if you expect 
to be of any use to-night, you must take a nap.” 

“Sarah, how you do come in to do your part 
in time of emergency !” said Dixie, admiringly. 


340 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND, 


That seems to be all I’m fit for,” returned 
Sarah, dryly; ‘‘my brother calls me ‘Madam 
Emergency.’ ” 

“ I think I’ll do something better than go to 
sleep,” said Dixie, brightly. 

“What’s that?” 

“ Take a breath of fresh air.” 


XIX. 

Another Old Woman. 

D ixie jumped off the low sled into the snow. 

The sleigh was kept for grand occasions ; the 
sled was an old wagon-body on runners. David 
had wanted to take the sleigh, but Gilbert had 
returned from town with the sled, and Dixie had 
decided that no one must take the trouble to put 
the horses to the sleigh. The air was invigor- 
ating, and the ride to Miss Abby’s around by the 
road was her first sleigh-ride in the new year. 
A maiden who can sparkle in the kitchen is not 
apt to be dull on a sleigh-ride; when David 
came, he had thought her to be the very spirit 
of good cheer, but since the good news for Nomie 
she had been Hope’s own radiant self. 

‘‘ I will return for you in an hour ; it is four 
o’clock now,” he said. 

Thank you ; an hour is all I want. In an 
hour Miss Abby can give me enough to think of 
for a week.” 

“ I was not aware that you needed something 
to think of.” 

“ I do, to keep my brain steady, in these days.” 

341 


342 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


Miss Abby heard the sleigh-bells, and came to 
the window to see who was passing. Her face 
brightened when she saw Cousin Sylvie’s horses, 
and then espied the brown dress and hat and the 
new shawl that had made her a visit on Christ- 
mas Day. Dixie found her in the same seat 
near the window, with the open Bible on a 
chair and Mischief at her feet. It might have 
been Christmas Day but that it was not so cold, 
and Nomie was not with her, and David had 
come, and — Why, how could Miss Abby and 
Mischief sit there so quietly, as though nothing 
at all had happened? 

Dixie!” cried the old lady, with both hands 
outstretched. I didn’t know they could spare 
you.” 

‘‘ Oh, I’m nobody nowadays ; Schenck and 
Sarah and Gilbert do everything. Gilbert 
watches every breath his father draws ; he will 
not leave the room at night. He and David 
take turns in sleeping, rolled in a blanket be- 
fore the fire, and Schenck is like a woman, as 
usual. Sarah will call him ‘ an old hen,’ and he 
does remind me of one.” 

He fits in,” said Miss Abby. 

Doesn’t he ? He comes along just when you 
can’t do another minute without him. I don’t 
very well see how he could be anybody but him- 
self” 

'‘No; he couldn’t. He is like the widow’s 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


343 


two mites. The Lord didn’t blame her for not 
casting more into the treasury, and say that she 
ought to have saved up a little more. He is only 
two mites, but he throws himself all in.” 

Miss Ahby, that’s good ! I have so much to 
talk about to-day ; I never can do it in an hour. 
But I must be home by that time ; Nomie will 
be watching for me.” 

‘^As I think about Mischief when I go away, 
it is good to have somebody watch for you, if it 
is only a cat. But Anna will be here before 
very long, and then I’ll have a human being to 
fuss over. Old folks must have somebody to fuss 
over, you know.” 

‘‘Was Anna glad?” asked Dixie, depositing 
her hat and shawl upon the bed. 

“ ‘ Glad’ ! I believe that she was gladder than 
I was, if that’s possible. To think that in my 
useless, foolish old age I should have a young 
thing like her about me ! Dixie, it’s a blessing 
in itself to be young.” 

“ I think it is a blessing in itself to be old — 
like you,” said Dixie, taking a chair at Miss 
Abby’s side. 

“ What are you looking all eyes about ?” de- 
manded the old lady, steadily gazing at her 
through her glasses. 

“Aunt Martin has been talking — ‘ going on,’ 
as Sarah calls it — and it tingles through me yet. 
I do want her to rejoice with Uncle Martin, and 


344 


DAVID STBONQ^S ERRAND. 


she doesn’t ; she mixes everything up, and she 
cries and is worried and can’t take the comfort.” 

“She isn’t a master-hand at taking comfort, 
but he will. I knew there was something on his 
mind ; it was hating himself and his own doings 
that made him so disagreeable to folks. And 
now he can have things straight, and die ‘Mar- 
tin Strong,’ and leave his children their own 
rightful name. It’s bad enough to give a child 
an ugly disposition as a legacy, or a crooked 
nose; but a bad name is worse. Your mother 
and father laid up for you a good deed that has 
come to you with compound interest, and Martin 
very nearly gave shame to his boys and kept 
them from their lawful inheritance. What good 
things fathers keep children from is just as wrong 
as what they give them. I don’t wonder Martin 
went growling and faultfinding around : it was 
enough to make anybody miserable ; and when 
folks get old, their young days come back to 
them. If his come back as mine do, I don’t 
wonder he had that hard look about his face ; it 
was an unforgiven face. I was thinking to-day 
about a pink sash I wore once ; I wasn’t more 
than twelve. Father bought it for me to march 
with the school-children on Fourth of July, and 
I think to-day how kind he was to do it, and I'm 
glad to think I never gave him a saucy word. I 
was laying up then for to-day ; I wouldn’t be so 
kind of joyful here alone if I hadn’t a happy life 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN 


345 


to look back on. I was saying some hymns to- 
day that I learned then, too. Just go on as you 
are going on, Dixie, every day, and you will have 
an old age worth living.’’ 

“ Oh, I want to,” said Dixie, fervently. But, 
Miss Abby, I shall not have you to help me.” 

''That is a pity,” said the old lady, humor- 
ously, "as I am the only one in the whole 
world who can. Where is Mr. Meredith’s 
father going to be? You will have teachers 
and learn all sorts of new things, I suppose. 
Some girls would think themselves too old, but 
you will not.” 

" I wish I were quick to learn,” almost sighed 
Dixie. 

" I read in a book that somebody said the only 
genius he knew anything about was hard work, 
and I think you have enough of that kind of 
genius in you.” 

" Nomie has. She will be the scholar.” 

" You will learn all you need to, I dare say, 
to fit you for the new society you will move in. 
No danger of your new cousins being ashamed 
of you.” 

" Or of my hands,” said Dixie, looking down 
at her well-used hands. 

" Your hands are good hands, and will grow 
soft enough for your place. They will find some- 
thing to do wherever you may be.” 

" I am to be housekeeper, David says. I shall 


346 


DAVID STRONG’S DBBAND. 


like that, and I can give as much time to Nomie 
as I want to. How did you feel when David told 
you.” 

‘‘ I felt to thank the Lord,” said Miss Abby, 
devoutly. 

I can’t get over thanking him ; it seems as 
if there is nothing else in my prayers.” 

The Lord won’t enjoy them any the less for 
that. He that offers praise glorifies God. Keep 
on glorifying him ; it is what you were made for. 
You have thanked him for every dittle thing so 
long, and now he has given you a big thing to 
thank him for. You were so brimming over 
with thanks for your mercies on Christmas Day 
that he has loved to bless you the more. I’m 
not afraid your heart will dry up for want of 
thankfulness as Sylvie’s has ; her heart is a dry 
well instead of a spring bubbling over, as it 
ought to he — as every heart that Christ died 
for and lives for ought to be. But I have 
hopes for Sylvie; her long trial is for some- 
thing. Her heart will gush out yet, I’m hoping, 
and sometimes I think I see signs of it.” 

wish,” said Dixie, slowly, ''that she had 
more love.” 

Hasn’t she a husband, and three boys grow- 
ing up ?” asked Miss Abby, quickly. '' I never 
had a husband, and I have love enough.” 

‘^So have I. But she hasn’t. We don’t any 
of us pet her ; I do, more than any one, and I 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


347 


do so little! I think she needs it as much as 
Nomie does. Sometimes she looks at me when 
Nomie puts her head in my lap as though she 
were longing for somebody’s lap ; and her mother 
never made a lap for her, I’m sure from what 
she says. She wants some of the loving she 
never had. People who cannot show their love 
in little ways have not the happiness of opening 
their hearts, and nobody opens his heart to 
them ; so they lose both ways — in giving and in 
taking. I know they miss it when they see it. 
And when people grow old and feeble and are 
not kissable and lovable, how their hearts must 
ache for something that it is too late to get ! If 
she had begun by showing her love to Uncle 
Martin, I think it would have made him less 
stern. Don’t you? There is softness in him; 
it used to come out to Nomie sometimes. But 
how can Aunt Martin begin now ? I never saw 
her pet a cat or a dog, although she would run 
around after these creatures to feed them. My 
mother loved us with her hands and eyes and 
voice, and even with her feet; for I know she 
liked to put out her foot and touch me.” 

Such a way of loving is a gift, and people 
who are not blessed with it do not know how\” 

Can’t they learn ?” asked Dixie, earnestly. 

I don’t know,” replied Miss Abby, shaking 
her head, but I would advise them to try.” 

‘‘Aunt Martin looks serious even when I know 


348 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


she is pleased; when Uncle Martin brings her 
delicacies, she doesn’t know how to show him 
that she is glad. She is really ungracious some- 
times to him, and he looks disappointed, for he 
tries to make her happy.” 

“ It is sad. I know Cousin Sylvie. She has 
taken care of her pigs and chickens and cattle, 
and hasn’t known how to take care of herself. 
She is kind-hearted : she would not wrong any 
one out of a cent ; but she has wronged herself 
out of the sweetness of life. But the Lord can 
make it up to her ; he is the sweetness of life. 
It isn’t too late now for him to make her last 
days bright. She will not look on the bright 
side, but God is the bright side. All she wants" 
is himself. There’s love enough in him, and 
overflowing. But I can’t make her see it. She 
wants this and that and everything.” 

‘‘Oh, Miss Abby, she will have you,” cried 
Dixie, impulsively. “It is so hard for me to 
leave her, now that it seems near. You will read 
to her and talk to her ? I want to give her a 
Daily Light before I go ; I cannot let her have 
mother’s. Miss Abby, do you think she will give 
me a little money before I go?” Dixie asked, 
anxiously. “ Nomie needs things, and so do I. 
I don’t want them to he ashamed of us where 
we go; we haven’t shoes, either of us, and we 
haven’t handkerchiefs or stockings or undercloth- 
ing enough. I’m afraid we want too much. We 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


349 


had nice things when we came, and I have 
worked for her, and it doesn’t seem fair for 
her to let us go away not dressed as well as 
servants are usually.” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” said Miss Abhy, doubtfully. 

“ I cannot ask her. Oh, Miss Abby, how can 
I tell her that we are going at all ?” cried Dixie, 
in real distress. I don’t know how to break it 
to her.” 

“ That is something to think of,” replied the 
old lady, seriously. “She is in a very excited 
state now.” 

“ Can you tell her ?” appealed Dixie. 

“ I could not make it easier to hear, child.” 

“ She will not listen to Sarah or Schenck. You 
don’t know how I dread it; it will be a real trou- 
ble to her. We are going so far ! She may never 
see me again. We shall go to Florida this win- 
ter, and in the spring to California, perhaps. 
David will go to California, but he says his 
father may want to take us somewhere else; 
but where, he does not know. The business is 
in California, and David is to go there and go 
into business.” 

“What business?” 

“I don’t know; he hasn’t told me. They 
have more than one business, and they employ 
men, and his father is interested in all the men. 
David says his father will make me a Lady 
Bountiful — me ! and I have worn ragged clothes 


350 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and old shoes myself for a long time, and stayed 
home from church because I had nothing fit to 
wear.’’ 

“ You have learned your lessons, Dixie ; God 
has been training you for your new position, and 
we did not know it.” 

And Nomie ! Think of Nomie looking like 
other little girls and growing well and strong on 
good food and warm air and bathing and rub- 
bing. She will have what she would have had 
if father had lived; he was making money, 
mother said, and had promised her a trip to 
Europe in his vacation. And she will have 
teachers and books and a piano. And it isn’t 
charity; they are our relatives. We are David’s 
cousins, and it is out of gratitude for mother giv- 
ing a home to David’s mother. My father edu- 
cated her, too, and she had a home with him be- 
fore mother was married and took her into her 
home.” 

“ I know that, child ; I told David all about 
it. Your grandfather brought her up. I showed 
him a letter she wrote me once.” 

“ And now all the goodness is coming back to 
Nomie and me. I wish I could lay up such a 
treasure for somebody.” 

‘‘ Make yourself a treasure for somebody.” 

‘‘ For Aunt Martin?” questioned Dixie. ‘‘Oh, 
who will tell her ? Oh, Miss Abby, perhaps — 
Don’t you know about the widow-woman who fed 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


351 


Elijah? Perhaps the Lord will prepare her some- 
how.’’ 

I shouldn’t wonder one bit,” said Miss Abby, 
smiling. But there is your chariot and chariot- 
eer; I hear his bells.” 

I hope it is some one else’s charioteer,” said 
Dixie, rising to go to the window; ‘‘and it is. Miss 
Abby : you can talk to me a little longer. David 
said when we were coming over that I thought 
of your words as some one estimated a grand 
speech of Daniel Webster — that every word was 
worth a pound. I told him your words lifted 
more than a pound off my heart.” 

“ Dear heart ! I am glad,” said the old voice, 
fondly. “ I ought to sympathize with your trou- 
bles, because I never have any troubles of my 
own.” 

“Wasn’t it a trouble to think of breaking up 
your home and going to your brother’s?” in- 
quired Dixie, as she settled herself comfortably 
again. 

“ Well, no ; the Lord was going with me if I 
went. I wasn’t in despair about it.” 

“ I’m not in despair,” returned Dixie, smiling. 

“Young folks’s troubles are such smothering 
troubles : they seem to crush your breath out ; 
but old folks’s troubles are only little inconveni- 
ences by the way. There is only a little way 
farther to go, and the Lord is with them, and 
they will soon be with him.” 


352 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


‘‘How are our troubles ‘smothering’?” asked 
Dixie. 

“ Oh, because they cover you all up ; you catch 
your breath and can’t breathe, and think you 
never will breathe again because you can’t see 
the end.” 

“ That is true,” assented Dixie. “ Did you use 
to be smothered ?” 

“ Yes ; I had my times. I wasn’t always ‘ old 
folks.’ One night I was smothered. A young 
man used to come home with me from prayer- 
meetings over sixty years ago, and I would ask 
him to come in ; and he would come in and talk 
while I sewed. I can remember some of the 
things we used to talk about just as well as 
though I heard his voice this minute. Well, 
my father didn’t like it. Father wasn’t young, 
and he wasn’t over-strong, and the boys didn’t 
help along much; and Sallie was younger than 
I, and father had a way of depending upon 
what I earned : it wasn’t much, but it counted ; 
and so father spoke to me and told me he didn’t 
want Amos hanging around any longer, and I 
must tell him so. I had always obeyed my 
father: he was a good father to me, and never 
stern or cross ; and so I didn’t answer anything 
back. I hadn’t any mother to intercede for me, 
for mother was too feeble in those days to know 
about the things I could keep from her. So the 
next time Amos came home with me I walked 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


353 


along silent enough, my heart pretty full with 
what I had got to say; and when we came to the 
gate, I said in a sort of hurry that I was pretty 
busy evenings and had to sew late, and if he 
didn’t mind I wouldn’t ask him in. He said he 
had nothing to mind if I hadn’t, and went olf 
without any ‘ Good-night.’ Father was waiting 
up for me, and asked me if we had had a good 
meeting; but I didn’t know much about the 
meeting, you may believe. I suppose I felt as 
all young folks do about such things. I felt weak 
the next day ; I didn’t do half a day’s work, and 
couldn’t always see to thread my needle.” 

“ Poor Miss Abby !” said Dixie, touching one 
of the hands that had held the needle that hard 
day sixty years ago. 

“ But it’s all over now, deary ; things do get 
all over. He went away to work at his trade, 
and married and lived a while, and died ; and 
his widow married again. He was Sarah Har- 
per’s father, and Sarah looks like him out of her 
eyes, and laughs like him. That was my only 
trouble of that kind, and it didn’t hurt me any ; 
God knew it wouldn’t. I have had things 
enough to think about ; I have things enough 
now to think about. You don’t know how I 
enjoy being back in my little room again ; 
there’s so much talk and bustle and confusion 
at your house that I’m afraid I can’t hear when 
the Lord speaks to me. I can be here all alone 

23 


354 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


with the Lord ; he comes, according to his prom- 
ise, and sups with me. I speak to him the 
first thing when I wake and the last thing at 
night after I blow my candle out. I told Anna 
she would find it too quiet and lonesome here 
after that big house full of lights and people, 
but she says she won’t ; and I feel that I’ve got 
an adopted child in my old age.” 

I wish I could leave Aunt Martin as peace- 
ful as I leave you.” 

“ Cousin Sylvie was born with some of the 
good things of this world about her, and I 
wasn’t — not many of them. I had to get good 
somewhere.” 

Where did you get it ?” 

“Where everybody may get it,” replied the 
old lady, energetically. “I got much of it — 
more than much of it — at church. People who 
do not go to church regularly do not know what 
they lose ; Cousin Sylvie has lost much of her 
good by staying away. The ideas I have got at 
church ! Where else should a poor working- 
woman who had little time to read, and who 
didn’t know one educated person, get her ideas? 
I remember the first sermon I ever listened to — 
seventy years ago, that was : it was about the 
blind man’s eyes being opened. And after that 
I listened every Sunday. Sermons and Sunday- 
school and reading the Bible have made me what 
I am. They have been my seminary and college 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN 


355 


and high school. Think of seventy years of 
Sundays ! Do people spend more than that 
time in school? How many is fifty-two times 
seventy 

can’t do it in my head/’ said Dixie; 
‘‘Nomie could, but I can’t.” 

“ Get a piece of paper, then, and a pencil — or 
pen and ink, if you can’t find a pencil : I want 
to know how many Sundays I’ve had since I 
heard that first sermon of which I have any 
recollection.” 

After some delay, Dixie announced three 
thousand six hundred and forty Sundays. 

“ How many years is that ?” inquired the old 
lady, with eager interest. “ I want to know how 
long I have been in my college. Three hundred 
and sixty-five days make one year. But they 
have vacations — two months sometimes ; suppose 
you count ten months to a year ; how many days 
is that ? Three hundred days will do. Can you 
do that?” 

I think so,” said Dixie, smiling ; Nomie 
could, and I ought to.” She made a few figures, 
and then exclaimed, ^^Miss Abby ! Twelve years! 
Twelve years as long as school-years.” 

‘‘I’ve had time for a pretty fair education,” 
said Miss Abby, with much complacency ; “ I 
oughtn’t to say, as Sylvie does, that I’ve had no 
advantages. People with Sundays do have ad- 
vantages. I had the sermon in the morning. 


356 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


and the lesson at Sunday-school, and the Bible- 
reading home/’ 

‘‘ But you have been kept at home sometimes.” 

“ Oh yes, many and many a time ; but it was 
Sunday all the same, and I could read the Bible 
and think my thoughts. And, besides, there are 
fifty-two Sundays in a year — two over the fifty. 
I made a vow once — and I have kept it — not to 
let my weekday life fill my Sunday thinking : 
I wouldn’t think about anything on Sunday 
that I couldn’t talk to the Lord about; and 
that has kept my Sundays days of rest and 
refreshing. Monday morning I was all made 
over new. And about the sermon ; I always 
got good out of it: there was always the text, 
to begin with. I didn’t dare criticise and find 
fault with the ambassadors of Christ who came 
to me in Christ’s stead ; and when people where 
I sewed would talk about the minister, I told 
them the good I got. Poor child ! you haven’t 
been able to get the good out of your Sundays 
the last seven years, have you? But there’s 
plenty ahead for you, I hope.” 

I think we have — Nomie and I. I’ve had 
to be her mother and sister; so I have been 
careful about her Sundays. I began to tell her 
Bible stories when she was very little ; the first 
time I read the Bible through I told her at night 
what I had read. It seems to me that I have 
told her all the Bible that I could make into a 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


357 


story ; you taught me how to do that. Miss 
Abby, what would Nomie and I have done 
without you?” 

“You didn’t have to,” said the old lady, with 
her own little laugh, “ and I haven’t had to do 
without you.” 

“ Miss Abby, I wish Sarah Harper had had 
you.” 

“ I wish she had had somebody.” 

“What ails her?” 

“ Why, what is the matter with her now ?” 

“The way she talks,” answered Dixie, color- 
ing ; “ I wouldn’t like you to hear her talk to 
me about finding our new cousins. I sent Nomie 
away; I wouldn’t let her listen. She said we 
had made our fortunes, and all I had to do was 
to ‘ get on the right side of the old man’ to have 
a fortune left me, and that I might be a lady now. 
As if I hadn’t always been ! And she said — 
But I will not repeat it. It was so unrefined ! 
And David heard a part of it, and I cried. He 
was angry with her, and I was angry with my- 
self that I had not run away. For a little while 
all the happiness was gone, and I would have 
refused to go but for Nomie. I cried and cried, 
and Sarah called me a goose; and David was 
very angry, and he talked to her like a grand- 
father. That was this morning, and this after- 
noon Aunt Martin was excited about David’s 
father coming and said we had nowhere to put 


358 


DAVID STRONG’S DRBAND. 


him to sleep ; and all the loveliness of every- 
thing, between them both, seemed spoiled ; and 
if it hadn’t been for Nomie and Uncle Martin 
and David’s father, the loveliness would have 
been spoiled. The way Sarah and Aunt Martin 
look at things takes the sweet out of the blessings 
and leaves something all mixed up with selfish- 
ness. Mother would be so glad to have us go ! 
and Nomie has begun to grow strong already. 
Sarah says I am artful and don’t know it; and 
that is one of the things David overheard. She 
said all her planning never brought anything 
like this to her, and I told her I had no plan 
but to be faithful and do the best I could.” 

^‘It is self-seeking; that is what ails Sarah 
Harper. It is at the bottom of everything. 
^Seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek 
them not.’ She and poor Sylvie will not have 
the best times together.” 

‘‘ Uncle Martin will be different, I hope; David 
thinks he is different now. He is so eager to see 
his father! He is counting the hours. David 
had a telegram; so he knows when his father 
started. But there is my charioteer this time, 
and it is Gilbert.” 

Gilbert shouted, and Dixie hurried out. 

‘‘He has come,” said Gilbert, more gravely 
than joyfully. 

Dixie ran back to give Miss Abby the blessed 
tidings. 


ANOTHER OLD WOMAN. 


359 


All the way home neither spoke. The noble, 
dignified, silver-bearded old man seemed to Gil- 
bert like one of the patriarchs stepped out of the 
Bible ; he would never forget how he had said, 
‘‘ My grandson and clasped him in his arms. 

David and his father were strong men, but 
they fell on each other’s necks and kissed each 
other. David’s heart was faint with joy. 

‘‘ Can he see me now ?” his father asked. 

“I will go up and inquire.” 

The fire on the hearth was low ; in the twi- 
light David discerned only the outlines of his 
brother’s face on the pillow. It would be better 
thus; for the self-control of each it would be 
better to touch each other’s hand and hear the 
strange sound of each other’s voice before they 
looked into each other’s eyes. 

“ Martin, do you want to see — somebody ?” 

It was fully a moment before Martin could 
give utterance to the monosyllable: 

‘‘ Yes.” 

David conducted his father to the door of the 
chamber, opened it and closed it, himself stand- 
ing without. 

There was a cry, and then the sound of weep- 
ing. 


XX. 

Life’s Lessons. 


“ OO you are Dixie ?” said David’s father, hold- 
^ ing her out at arm’s length and surveying 
her with eyes expressive of the most perfect sat- 
isfaction. ‘‘ You are Dixie?” 

Yes, she was Dixie, the personation of youth 
and sweetness combined with womanly strength. 
The tremor about the lips, the flushed cheeks 
and the lifted timid eyes, dropping quickly, but 
added to the sweetness, while taking nothing 
from the strength. 

‘‘What have you been doing all the time since 
last I saw you ?” 

“ Growing,” said Dixie, smiling. 

“ I believe it ; you have been in a good place 
to grow in. We must thank Aunt Martin’s 
farmhouse for several things. And now are 
you ready to leave it, and to give yourself to 
me until that far-off time when somebody shall 
have a better right to you?” 

“Oh, you are so good!” The tears started 
now, and she caught both his hands. “ What 
may Nomie and I do for you?” 

360 


LIFERS LESSONS. 


361 


‘‘ It is all done. All you have to do is to take 
and enjoy.’’ 

That is like heaven,” said Dixie. 

‘"Yes,” chimed in Nomie, ‘‘because I shall 
get well and strong.” 

“ God grant it, dear !” said David’s father, 
fervently. “Prayer and pains will do wonders.” 

Schenck came and drew Dixie aside for a con- 
sultation about supper. He was a little cross, but 
Dixie was patient with him. She was somewhat 
nervous herself about the arrangement of the tea- 
table ; steel forks would seem so odd to David’s 
father, and the brown teapot would be so unlike 
his own tea-table; but she made little changes 
here and there, cut the bread in thin slices and 
piled the gold and silver cake together, and was 
not wholly unsatisfied when she asked Gilbert to 
bring his grandfather to the supper-table. 

Schenck was silent — absolutely silent — and, 
for him, grim and disagreeable. Dixie’s beam- 
ing happiness was robbing him of everything he 
cared for in that house or anywhere. But he 
had never lived to be happy ; why should he be 
disappointed as he was growing old? He would 
die some day ; he had that to look forward to and 
prepare for. He had had palpitation all day; 
she would be sorry if she knew that, and not 
give all her attention to these strangers. 

The boys were very quiet in the presence of 
their unknown grandfather, watching every word 


iG2 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


he spoke and feeling nearer to him every time 
his eye rested upon them. Joe decided that he 
was “jolly” and Jesse that he was “grand;” 
with Gilbert there were no words to express 
his reverence. Gilbert alone among the boys 
knew his father’s story. 

After supper Dixie took the tall lamp into the 
parlor, and the three boys and Nomie gathered 
around “grandfather,” asking innumerable ques- 
tions and listening to the description of his home 
in wonderful California. Joe and Jesse thought 
they would like the lumber business, but Gilbert 
asked no questions about it. 

Aunt Martin listened to the eager talk as she 
lay in bed near the door, that stood ajar ; grand- 
father’s voice was pleasant, and what an interest 
he took in the boys! What did Naomi mean 
by talking about oranges and flowers and sea- 
bathing ? What was the boys’ rich grandfather 
to her? But the child had a way of think- 
ing she had a right to everything; even that 
basket of fruit he had brought to her Nomie 
looked at and touched as though she wanted 
it. That child had always been a care, and 
she had taken so much of Dixie’s time when 
she ought to have been at work in the kitchen. 

Aunt Martin did not feel able to see her hus- 
band’s father that night ; with nervousness and 
sleeplessness, she was less able in the morning. 
It was Monday afternoon before Dixie could pre- 


LIFE’S LESSONS. 


363 


vail upon her to admit him, and then she was 
too weak to sit up and had to be pillowed up in 
bed ; her voice was husky as she tried to welcome 
him. He took her hand and held it ; she was 
a timid woman, and he was to her an august 
stranger, but as he held her hand he bent his 
tall white head and kissed her lips. 

‘‘ My daughter, I am glad you are able to see 
me.” 

‘‘ Will you sit down ?” gaining courage. 

“ May I sit down and talk to you ? I want to 
speak of our plans. Martin and I have had a 
talk, and he is satisfied ; now I want you to be 
satisfied.” 

The talk lasted a long time. With her eyes 
on his face Sylvie listened, becoming very quiet. 
He had come to bless them all — the boys, her 
husband and herself ; there was nothing to dread 
or to be afraid of. Schenck had given him his 
room, and Sarah said that he did not make one 
bit of trouble. Strangely enough — ^but human 
nature is strange — in counting on the blessing 
of his coming, she forgot Dixie and Nomie. In 
her life there was no one to be blessed but her- 
self, her husband and the boys. During the 
seven years that the orphan girls had been 
under her roof she had never included them 
in her prayers. 

“Are you sure my husband will get well?” 
she asked, anxiously. 


3G4 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


“ He is gaining ; he sat up an hour yesterday, 
and two hours this morning. He has gained 
steadily since I came. He must not take cold 
this winter ; that lung is tender yet. I hope to 
see him down stairs before I leave you.” 

‘^Are you going soon?” 

‘‘As soon as Martin can spare me. I have 
several reasons for wishing to return. My plan 
was to spend the winter away from home — I had 
a whim that I would feel stronger in Florida — 
but letters inform me that business demands my 
presence in California. I am interested in more 
than one enterprise. I want to give David some- 
thing to do ; he is beginning to be restless and — 
Another thing : has Dixie told you that I am her 
mother’s cousin ? Huth Meredith, her mother’s 
cousin, was David’s mother and my second wife.” 

“ I suspected — I don’t know what I suspected 
— from hints Sarah let drop. I am ready not to 
be surprised at anything now since Mr. Shields 
has found his father.” 

“ That is something to be spoken of, too. Mar- 
tin, for your sake, wishes to retain the name he 
gave you in marriage. The doctor is aware of 
my relationship to you, but nothing further ; 
nothing is made public by my coming. Gilbert 
will take my name when he goes away to school ; 
he is Martin Gilbert Strong.” 

Aunt Martin looked the relief she felt; now 
the neighbors need never know that “ Shields ” 


LIFE'S LESSONS. 


365 


was not her right name. But what did it matter, 
if he had married Ruth Meredith ? Ruth Mere- 
dith was a poor cousin of Ruth Herbert’s, and 
had come there once to spend a week with Ruth 
Herbert ; people had said she had married rich, 
but she had gone far away and everybody had 
forgotten her. To think she should be — What? 
Her husband’s stepmother? She smiled; that 
would be something to make Sarah Harper 
laugh. 

‘‘ Yes, I know Ruth Meredith ; she and the 
other Ruth were great cronies. The other 
Ruth’s father brought her up and did as well 
by her as he did by his own Ruth. People 
wondered at it, too; he wasn’t a rich man.” 

As Ruth Meredith was my wife, her relatives 
became mine ; Ruth Herbert’s children are very 
near and very dear to me.” 

“I suppose so,” replied Aunt Martin, care- 
lessly. 

I am indebted to Ruth Herbert and to her 
father with an indebtedness that I shall seek to 
repay to Ruth Herbert’s orphan children.” 

Shall you give them money ?” she inquired, 
with great interest. 

Something better, I hope. Nomie needs 
something done for her health immediately ; she 
needs a change and great care. The doctor thinks 
they have not come too late.” 

‘‘ ‘ A change’ ? Will you take her away ?” It 


3G6 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


would be a relief to be rid of the child, thought 
Aunt Sylvie; Dixie would attend to her work 
better. 

I certainly intend to take her away ; I intend 
to do for her all that gratitude and money can 
do. I have seen a child weakly at her age de- 
velop with care into a moderately strong woman. 
We cannot hope to make her another Dixie, but 
I do hope to see her a rosy-cheeked, round-faced 
maiden before she is sixteen.’’ 

Will she go with you ?” 

There is no doubt of that ; she sat in my lap 
last night as content as a kitten. She calls me 
‘ grandfather,’ as your boys do.” 

‘‘ I did not think she would ever leave Dixie,” 
returned Aunt Martin, still unconvinced. 

She will not leave Dixie. I should not hope 
to do anything for her without Dixie.” 

“ Will you take Dixie away ? Don’t you 
know I can’t get along without her?” 

“ I expect to take Dixie away. She belongs 
to me as much as to anybody — rather more, she 
and I think. Had my wife lived, this would 
have been done before; but, not knowing that 
Ruth Herbert needed me in any way, I drifted 
away from her. After my Ruth died I was 
wrapped up in David. I acknowledge my 
fault; I should have kept trace of my wife’s 
benefactress. Now that I have the girls, you may 
be sure I shall keep them and care for them.” 


LIFERS LESSONS. 


367 


‘‘ But you must not take Dixie away from me,” 
she pleaded ; ‘‘ I took her when she had not a 
friend in the world.” 

“ Has she not been faithful to you ? Has she 
cost you anything that she has not repaid ? Have 
you ever been at any extra expense for her ?” 

She has been a good deal of care — she and 
Naomi both. Naomi was only a child when she 
came, and Dixie wasn’t much better ; she didn’t 
know how to milk, and she couldn’t make a loaf 
of bread to keep herself from starving. They 
hadn’t one cent; their guardian had cheated 
them out of everything. I had to pay their 
fare in the cars. I have taken care of them 
seven years, and now, as they are growing old 
enough to be of some help, they want to go 
away. That is all the gratitude there is in the 
world !” 

Looking at the matter from your own stand- 
point, which may be the wiser way,” he returned, 
gently, but steadily, ‘‘if you can make an esti- 
mate of what they have cost you, beyond the 
help Dixie has been to you, I will repay it. 
Will five hundred dollars a year cover it?” 

“ They have not cost that.” 

“ Three hundred, then ?” he continued, court- 
eously. 

“ I can’t estimate anything about it. Naomi 
has never paid for herself; Dixie has done better 
since I have been confined to my bed. I do not 


368 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


want any money for them ; I will not take one 
cent. Who is to take care of me if you take 
her away ? Nobody else knows how I like 
things.” 

'‘If not for the past, then you will allow 
some reparation for the loss she may be to 
you in the future. But she is not hound to 
you. She is of age; she has a right to leave 
you at any time. I understand that you have 
made no agreement ; there is no money -relation- 
ship between you. She can exact no wages from 
you to-day ; if she leaves you to-day, you are not 
bound by any agreement to give her one dollar.” 

" I haven^t any dollar to give; we have no more 
than we can scrape along on.” 

" Your husband will provide a trained nurse 
for you, and a strong woman for help in the 
kitchen ; Miss Harper is willing to remain as 
housekeeper and seamstress. Your wants are all 
provided for; there is no reason — no good rea- 
son, except in yourself — why you should not be 
happy and comfortable. The interest of thirty 
thousand dollars is to be settled upon your hus- 
band as long as he lives ; should he leave you a 
widow, the income will remain yours. Do you 
think eighteen hundred dollars a year, besides 
the income from your farm, will make you com- 
fortable ?” 

" That is a great deal.” 

" Martin thinks it will keep him free from 


LIFERS LESSONS. 


369 


care. If at any time unforeseen expenses come 
in, all you have to do is to write to me. Gilbert 
I shall educate ; the little boys I hope may de- 
velop a taste for an education of some kind. If 
they wish to leave the farm, send them to me. 
Your husband is attached to this home and to 
his way of life; he is sure you would not be 
willing to leave the house where you were born. 
If his boys may have a chance to do what their 
taste and abilities seem to indicate, he is satisfied. 
He has no other ambition for himself than to 
live his present life free from the anxiety of 
making both ends meet. If I die before he 
dies, he will receive no more than the interest 
of a certain sum ; the principal will go to his 
heirs. I have been plain with him. His am- 
bition seems to be dead ; in some ways he is an 
older man than his father is.” 

Have you left as much for your other son ?” 

My other son will be amply provided for. I 
explain this to you because I am a very old man, 
and I may not live to visit you again.” 

What will the girls do, with you ?” 

Yomie’s first business is to grow strong, and 
Dixie’s first business is to help her do it.” 

Shall you take them to California ?” 

That is what I purpose to do. All climates • 
can be found in California ; no other country in 
the world is supposed to have such cool summers 
and such warm winters. How you would enjoy 

24 


370 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


the climate and the fruits! But I shall not forget 
you. That my son has a wife who loves him I 
am sure ; that he will study to make her com- 
fortable I am equally sure. And we may as well 
consider it settled about Dixie/’ he added, pleas- 
antly but decidedly. ‘‘I will allow you an in- 
come sufficient to pay the best nurse you can 
find ; or if you prefer to do without the nurse, 
the income is still your own. It is to be put into 
black and white before I leave, so you may be at 
rest about it. I am taking Dixie from you, but 
I leave you solid money in return. Money would 
not take her from me, but money can provide a 
nurse for you.” 

‘‘Dixie might have gone somewhere else or 
been married, and I shouldn’t have had any- 
thing,” said Aunt Martin, very much consoled. 

“As a favor to myself, I ask that you will 
make her leaving as little painful to the dear girl 
as possible; her heart is very sore about leaving 
you. Will you promise me ?” 

“I will try,” promised Aunt Martin; “but you 
don’t understand how nicely she rubs me.” 

“ You haven’t had a nurse yet with hands that 
were made for rubbing.” 

“ I would rather save the money and get along 
without a nurse.” 

“ As you please about that. I shall hear of 
you stepping around before six months.” 

Notwithstanding the promise, Dixie had to 


LIFE’S LESSONS. 


371 


bear with many reproaches and not a few bursts 
of tears. 

“ Aunt Martin, you know you would rather 
have the money than have me.” 

‘M’d rather have you and the money, both,” 
Aunt Martin answered through her tears, ‘‘ and 
I don’t see why I can’t have both. It’s no more 
than right that my husband should support me, 
and it’s no more than right that you should stay, 
after all I have done for you.” 

‘‘We ’will come and visit you,” said Dixie, 
brightly ; “ you will hardly recognize Nomie, 
and I shall find you in the kitchen ordering 
your girl around.” 

“I hope you may,” returned Aunt Martin, 
disconsolately; “I suppose I shall get used to 
seeing other folks around. And Sarah certainly 
is a more experienced housekeeper than you are; 
she believes in soft soap more than you do.” 

Dixie laughed. How queer it would be never 
to make soft soap again ! How selfish she would 
feel in her new life ! As if God would not find 
new work for her to do ! 

She would ask Miss Abby to talk to her about 
that. 

Sarah had already taken her place as house- 
keeper, and Dixie became nurse only in those 
last few days. 

“ Grandfather,” as she loved to call David’s 
father, had put a roll of bills into her hands, 


372 


DAVID STRONG’S ERRAND. 


asking her to make any changes that seemed 
desirable in her own wardrobe and Nomie’s: 

David has always had a monthly allowance, 
and this is the first payment of yours and No- 
mie^s.’’ 

‘‘All this?” exclaimed Dixie. 

“ Do not be too economical, my dear ; remem- 
ber that David and I wish you to dress neatly 
and becomingly. I leave it all to your good 
taste and judgment.” 

And so it came to pass that Miss Abby’s 
“manna” found her first dressmaking in the 
country at Aunt Martin’s. 

Sarah Harper was in her element. There was 
life enough in the house now, and she was in the 
very midst of it, ordering Schenck around and 
dictating to Dixie how the new dresses should 
be made. Aunt Martin began to think that she 
might as well sit up as lie all day in bed, espe- 
cially as her husband came down stairs to sit in 
her room, and to make plans about fences, and to 
calculate how many loads of lime the land would 
need in the spring, and to wonder if the old 
house would bear a new roof. He was “ differ- 
ent” — as different as a happy man is from an 
unhappy man. Aunt Martin hoped that he 
would yet ask a blessing at the table. 

Sarah Harper became more than ever like a 
young girl; she made an arrangement with 
Cousin Sylvie that she should be paid ten dol- 


LIFERS LESSONS. 


373 


lars a month, and that the washing and the 
ironing should be done and a woman hired 
whenever she thought it necessary. Cousin 
Sylvie groaned, and then consented; that would 
he better than having a strange woman in the 
kitchen every day in the week. 

Now that Sarah had an assured income, she 
bought several new paper-covered story-books, 
and a pink ribbon for her neck. As Sylvie 
owned the farm in her own right and had no 
nearer relative, and as Dixie and Nomie were 
independent of her, why should she not count 
on becoming her heir if she humored her ? She 
would make herself as necessary to her comfort 
as Dixie had done. 

So everybody was satisfied but poor old 
Schenck, and what could anybody do for him? 
What he suffered no one knows, and I think 
he did not know himself. No one could ever 
take Dixie’s place to him ; with Sarah Harper 
ordering him around and Cousin Sylvie full of 
freaks and fancies, and no Dixie to work for and 
to keep the house cheerful, what would life be to 
him ? What wopld be the good of getting up in 
the morning ? And when he lay down at night, 
what would he have to look forward to but being 
sick and dying? There was not any one to work 
for unless he went out into the world to look for 
somebody, and he was too old and weak to do 
that. Nobody cared for him at Cousin Martin’s ; 


374 


DAVID STRONG^S ERRAND. 


the boys teased him and Martin let him alone: 
he would rather be teased than be let alone. 
His eyes were weak, and he could not read; 
what would make the days go by? Was any- 
body happy when he grew old if nobody cared 
for him ? He was not like Abby ; he could not 
“ meditate’’ and find things in the Bible. If he 
went to see her every day, would she get tired of 
him ? She could tell him what she found in the 
Bible, and they could talk about Dixie. 

Who could help Schenck? Truly enough, 
who but Dixie herself? 

Grandfather,” said Dixie, the day before 
they went away from the farm, ‘‘may I say 
something? and if you do not like it, will you 
tell me so?” 

“ You may always say something ; and if I do 
not like it, I will tell you so.” 

“ It is about Mr. Savage — poor old Schenck. 
Do you understand him?” 

“ I am trying to do so ; I think I do. He is 
as faithful as an old dog.” 

“ I’m afraid he will not live long if Nomie and 
I go away.” 

“ Must he live long ?” asked David, teasingly. 

“ Whether long or short, I want his life to be 
happy,” said Dixie, seriously. “He has been 
such a good friend to us! He was so kind 
when we first came and were homesick! And 
David knows what he has done for me.” 


LIFE’S LESSONS. 


375 


I know/’ said David, and I know wkat you 
want now. You want to take your faithful dog 
with you. — Father, we might have known it.” 

“ He needs a new climate ; he coughs and has 
heart-disease. Don’t you think California might 
do him good ?” pleaded Schenck’s friend. 

Undoubtedly,” said David. 

Dixie, don’t mind him, dear. Do you want 
him to go with us?” 

Oh, I do ! I cannot be happy to leave him 
behind. He will make a place for himself ; he 
is never ill-mannered or troublesome, and he will 
find something to do. He has some money ; he 
would not be dependent. He will be happy just 
to be near Nomie and me.” 

“He certainly has an able advocate,” said 
David. — “Dixie, I shall send you to my father 
when I need an intercessor.” 

“When you do,” replied his father. — “Yes, 
my dear ; ask him to go with us. I will ask him 
myself, if you would, prefer it. He shall have a 
chamber and a place at our table as long as he 
wishes it.” 

“ He will insist upon paying his board,” said 
Dixie. 

“ He may do that, too. Dixie, you are a true 
woman.” 

“ I heard him praying as I passed his door last 
night, and I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him. 
Now I am as happy as I want to be.” 


376 


DAVID STRONG ERRAND. 


‘‘You have the ‘mastery/ Dixie/’ said David, 
“for the ‘joy is the last in every song’ of yours.” 

The reader can imagine Schenck’s joy better 
than I can describe it. He was entirely over- 
come ; he could eat nothing, and sleep went from 
him. He fell on his knees in his dark chamber 
that night, arose, and dropped on his knees again, 
and early morning found him thanking God. 

Can I any more satisfactorily give you the 
story of the next four years than to take you 
to the home of David’s father four years after 
that Christmas Day that David knocked at his 
brother’s door? 

It had been a day of rare pleasure to them all, 
and twilight found them gathered in the old 
man’s chamber. He was more the old man than 
he had been four years ago. 

A young girl, not tall and rather slight, stood 
beside him with her hand upon his shoulder ; 
her cheeks were full, the glad tint of health giv- 
ing them a pretty roundness ; her hair was not 
so yellow as it had been four. years ago, but there 
was not the unchildlike look in her eyes that had 
marred their beauty then. Dixie said that her 
face was younger to-day than when she was thir- 
teen ; she was as girlish as Dixie wanted her to 
be. 

Dixie herself was rather more womanly ; per- 
haps the blue-eyed boy in her lap holding her 


LIFE’S LESSONS. 


377 


fingers with the tenacity of three months old 
added to her womanliness. It scarcely added 
to the sweet motherliness of her eyes, for when 
had Nomie not found motherliness in them? 
The years have added strength and manliness 
to her husband, for as he stands behind her 
looking down at them both, the baby and its 
mother, his face is certainly more matured than 
hers. 

Schenck, with a quicker tread than Aunt Mar- 
tin’s kitchen ever knew anything about, entered 
the room with a letter. Of course he must watch 
for the postman and bring the letter ; he must be 
serving somebody. 

^‘From Gilbert,” said David’s father. — Light 
the gas and read it, David.” 

Gilbert was in his last college year ; before he 
entered the seminary he expected to visit his 
grandfather. There was nothing special in the 
letter excepting news from all, which was always 
something special. His father was busy and well ; 
his mother sat in the dining-room all day in her 
invalid-chair ; Sarah was as kind to his mother 
as ever; the boys were busy on the farm, and 
both wanted to be farmers. He was sure he had 
heard from Frank at last; he had been sentenced 
to the State prison for stealing. Would Dixie 
care to know that Forest was married? Miss 
Abby had given up her class in Sunday-school, 
but she was still able to go to church once a day. 


378 


DAVID STBONG’S EBBAND. 


‘‘Grandfather, shall we sing, as usual?” asked 
Nomie, stroking his white hair. 

“ No ; sing more than usual. Let us sing 

‘Joy to the world! The Lord is coined 

Let me tell you once more, children, that the 
sweetest truth heaven knows and has made 
known to earth is the love of the Father and 
the perfect obedience of the Son.” 

“Yes,” said David, “and in heaven I shall 
remember how I learned it.” 


THE END. 




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